Never the twain shall meet
by Storystuff
Summary: When Mycroft swore to look after his brother he never thought that perhaps one day he wouldn't have to do it alone. A story of brotherhood, friendship, hope, jealousy and the changing of the winds.
1. Mummy

_Disclaimer: Why is nothing ever mine? Sherlock doesn't belong to me unfortunately, but give me time :-) *Wishes on a passing star* _

_"Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,  
Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat;  
But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,  
When two strong men stand face to face,  
tho' they come from the ends of the earth!"_

_ -The Ballad of East and West - Rudyard Kipling_

* * *

"Mycroft!"

Mycroft Holmes turned to face the stairwell. His little brother was calling out again. He was always shouting for someone. Sometimes, he would need someone there so desperately that sometimes he would cling to Mycroft's arm until he promised to stay, and then other times he would scream at him to get out. Today was a day when Sherlock would need him. And tomorrow would probably be a day when he would not.

Taking a bowl of chicken soup with him, he walked upstairs.

"Mycroft," the voice was smaller as Mycroft ascended the stairs towards his brother's room. This house had memories, Mycroft could tell. The house was a little too creepy for him with all it had seen, but as for his little brother, there was something about his little brother that creeped Mycroft out too. The boy didn't seem to mind the house too much, and Mycroft sometimes caught him sat in one of the many empty rooms, sitting face to the wall, talking. But when Mycroft asked him who he was talking to, he just said: "The walls"

"The walls?" Mycroft usually said, "Do they listen to you any better than I do?" Sherlock usually looked uncomfortable at this point. "You don't listen to me at all Mycroft"

"I would if you talked to me" Mycroft would say. Sherlock never said anything after this. Usually, the exchange ended here and Mycroft would have to leave. Perhaps this was what worried mummy so much. Maybe she thought it was strange that Sherlock made friends with the things that haunted the walls.

Walking up the last few stairs, he went down the hall to Sherlock's room. The boy was sat up in bed, looking sickly and pale. Sherlock was always a very sickly child. He was ill all the time and was pale and frail looking. As a younger child he had had Tuberculosis but had pulled through, but he had never been particularly healthy to begin with.

"Mycroft," he said gently, "I don't feel well". Sherlock was usually the type of child to cover up his illness, usually preferring to go to school than stay at home with mummy and Mycroft. Mummy had grown to dislike Sherlock more and more over the past few years.

"I don't want to go to school Mycroft," Sherlock whined, "The other kids are teasing me". He had been complaining of this for many weeks now and Mycroft couldn't ignore it. Sherlock was…different and well, other children just didn't like different. And as Mycroft looked at him, he did look terrible, flushed, even though he was normally pale as death, and when Mycroft put his hand to his forehead to test for a fever, he was burning hot.

"You don't look very well" Mycroft said, shifting as he sat on the edge of Sherlock's bed.

"They laugh at me" Sherlock said, "They said that I'll die soon if I don't get better."

"And why would they say that? You're perfectly fine as you are". Sherlock looked unhappy. He knew he was different, and Mycroft suddenly regretted saying that he was 'fine'. To be honest, Sherlock wasn't 'fine'. It was probable that Sherlock would never be 'fine'.

"They call me a freak" Sherlock said, "I'm not a freak, am I Mycroft?" Mycroft shook his head. "You're not a freak Sherlock," he said and he meant it. Sure, Sherlock was unusual, but he wasn't any stranger than the rest of the Holmes family. And he wasn't a freak. He felt a familiar anger build up inside him.

Sherlock seemed to shy away when he saw Mycroft's hands curl into slow, tight fists and he seemed to shy away even more when he saw the familiar, unrestricted anger that sometimes took his brother. It had only ever twice been directed at Sherlock and Mycroft had since learned his lesson from it. Sherlock however had always feared that side of his brother even though, for the most part, it was usually directed at other people and especially, Sherlock noticed, at those particular 'other people' that hurt Mycroft's younger brother the most.

He had first seen it when father had still been at home. They had been having dinner in the dining room and it had been a silent affair until father had seen the ring of light purple and yellow bruising that surrounded Sherlock's right eye.

"Sherlock," he had said in that usual stern, uncaring tone that defied any resistance (a voice that Sherlock had always been deeply afraid, yet respectful, of), "What happened to your face". Sherlock's father was usually left Sherlock alone, disinterested in him, but there was those nights, and often days, when Sherlock hid from his father, hiding because he knew that the last time father had been so drunk he had beaten Sherlock black and blue with his belt until he had cried and Mycroft would have to drag father off of him. Fearing what might happen if he didn't tell the truth; Sherlock lightly touched the bruise with his fingertips, as if trying to hide his shame from mother and Mycroft, who were now looking at him intently, mother's expression a mix of amusement and malice, Mycroft's a mask of concern and worry. "One of the other boys at school," Sherlock said quietly, "hit me". He had seen Mycroft's fist curl tighter around his cutlery at this, his hands shaking angrily. Truth be told, it had been more than one boy, and they had done a lot more than just hit him. Truth be told, it had been three boys and he had been kicked, hit, taunted and spat on at one point, when they had finished.

"_How dare they?" _Mycroft had thought, _"How dare they even touch my little brother?" _He had sworn that day that he wouldn't let them get away with it. And he swore it every time Sherlock got hurt. He would never let any of them get away with it. Anyone who ever messed with Sherlock Holmes would have to go through Mycroft Holmes too. In the end he had eventually framed the boys responsible for cheating in mid-way exams and they had been temporarily expelled for four months. Once he had traced who they were of course, however, to Mycroft's great sadness it had not been difficult. Word had spread fast about who had beaten up Sherlock Holmes and to Mycroft's anger, people seemed to be enjoying the news, sneering that the 'freak' had had it coming. That he deserved it. Mycroft had seen many children taunting Sherlock about it at school, had even seen someone punch him when he tried to retort, to which Mycroft had immediately retaliated with a faked letter home from the Headmaster, as he seemed to hold Sherlock in as much distain as the children did. Mycroft also noticed that Sherlock was usually alone in the playground too, often refusing his brother's companionship, Mycroft's own friends beginning to say how weird 'that kid' was.

Sherlock had seen Mycroft's anger after that of course but he always remembered especially the times when Mycroft had uncharacteristically turned it on him. He had seen Mycroft turn his fury on father before, but never had he turned it on Sherlock, never, not until the day father had left and Mycroft had seized Sherlock by the collar and dragged him so close that their noses were only inches apart, and he had yelled at him ferociously, leaving Sherlock backing up against the wall in fright and regret for whatever he had done to infuriate his brother so. Mycroft always regretted it after though. He regretted telling Sherlock that it was his fault that daddy had left and that his father had never even liked him. He regretted it when he told him that it was his fault that mummy got sick and that it was his fault that she tried to kill herself. He always said sorry afterwards of course, always retracted all those hurtful words that he'd said but he never stopped feeling guilty when he thought of it. Sherlock on the other hand would pretend that it had never happened and wouldn't ever speak about it. He'd never stop talking to Mycroft and he would always act grown up, even when Mycroft knew that he wasn't. And the worst thing about it was that Sherlock would never deny the things that Mycroft told him, and that was what made Mycroft feel the guiltiest about. That he had only voiced out loud what Sherlock was thinking. That he really did believe all those things that he told him when he was angry, and perhaps he believed all of those people who called him names, even if he didn't show it. And that made Mycroft all the angrier when they called him a freak.

Now however, as Mycroft sat on the edge of his bed, Sherlock still cringed as his silently seething brother took a deep, shaky breath in an attempt to calm himself.

"How about this chicken soup then Sherlock? You need to eat something." Sherlock saw his brother's falsely cheery demeanour and still drawn back into himself, afraid of reawakening any more talk about his classmates, he took the bowl but, returning to his usual, falsely uncaring façade, gave it a disapproving sniff.

"I don't like chicken soup," he said, laying it down next to him. Sighing, Mycroft swirled the spoon in the soup. He knew that Sherlock had a very good inclination of the rules of the house, even if he didn't always obey them, but Mycroft had been avoiding the topic for some time now. Sherlock probably already knew what he was about to say, but he had to make sure.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said, not looking up from the bowl, "You do know what you have to do if you stay home from school, right? I'll be here too, but… you're going to have to stay at home as well". Sherlock's wide, terrified eyes met his as he looked up.

"Mycroft, no, please!" he said, sitting up, but descended into a terribly painful sounding fit of coughing that reminded Mycroft terribly of what he knew whooping cough to sound like, and Mycroft had to make him lay back down into bed before he let him continue.

"You can't go to school like this Sherlock," Mycroft said, stroking Sherlock's hair empathically, "And there really is nowhere else that I can send you". His little brother shuddered violently as if a breeze had just come in through the open doorway.

"She hates me Mycroft," he said, his voice sounding crushed and hopeless, "Please don't make me stay with her". Mycroft gave him a sympathetic frown. "She doesn't hate you," he said softly. But inside, he wasn't so sure. Mummy had become ever more disdainful of Sherlock as the years had gone on, and he wasn't entirely sure that he hadn't been right about the attempted suicide being not Sherlock's fault.

"Please Mycroft," Sherlock pleaded, "I won't ever be sick ever again, I'll try, I promise! Just please, _please, _don't make me stay at home". Mycroft felt his heart wrench at his little brother's impossible promise.

"I don't think even you can stop yourself from getting sick," he said, ruffling Sherlock's sweat dampened hair. "It'll be fine" he said in a falsely cheery voice, "She probably won't even ask to see you" He handed him the chicken soup once more. "Eat up," he said, "I'll be back to check on you soon, okay?" And with that, he got up to leave.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock said, his voice small and scared.

"Yes Sherlock?"  
"Um… can I borrow your coat?" Mycroft gave a little laugh. Sherlock had always loved that coat, it had been his uncle's. Sherlock had always admired his uncle, who had been a very well respected man in the war. It usually gave Sherlock a little bit more strength at times when he was sick like this, even though it was usually Mycroft's.  
"Yeah, I'll go get you it". He left the room and closed the door quietly, not wanting to make any loud noises, in case it aggravated his brother's condition. He sighed. He just hoped that his mother didn't realise Sherlock was at home today.

Sherlock spent the rest of the day in bed, keeping warm, huddling the coat close to his chest. He was cold, and in no mood to do anything but sit and shiver, but as the day wore on, he felt himself puffing louder, cringing each time in case mother heard him. Eventually, he knew that he would have to ask Mycroft for some more medicine, whether he liked it or not, for risk of having mother hear his croaking cough.

Silently, he slipped out of bed, his bare feet touching the wooden floor, thankfully not making too much of a creak. Creeping to his door, he looked outside his bedroom, scanning the hallway for signs of life, but seeing none.

"Mycroft?" he whispered, not wanting his mother to hear his soft calling, "Mycroft?" His voice was nothing but a whisper, but yet it bounced off the walls loudly and he heard something stirring in the room by the staircase. He froze, holding his breath, cringing as his own whisper seemed to echo and die in the cold, empty hallways, withering in the few rapt moments of silence that followed. Stolen by the ghosts in the haunted walls, Sherlock remembered his brother's stories of lost children in the house that he had told to scare him when he had been bad, like when he had set off a chemical time bomb in the pantry to see how far the noise went underground. He had pretended not to believe him, but he wasn't sure. If the walls stole children, would they steal him too? Would they take his voice, like they took all of those other people?

"Holmes". Sherlock felt his heart miss a beat. The voice seemed to crack the walls of the ancient house, and Sherlock felt as if they were closing in on him, squeezing him. He knew only one person who called him Holmes. He didn't like it either, the reason she called him that. When father left, and mother had nothing but contempt for him for leaving, she had taken disgust to the Holmes name, the name of his father, and had since called Sherlock always by his last name. She had said how dirty the name was, and that only horrible little creatures like Sherlock deserved such a name, at which Mycroft had stopped her with an indignant 'Mother!". But by that time, the damage had already been done. Sherlock never allowed anyone to call him Holmes.  
He gave a whimper, the noise dying in his throat as he heard the voice again, splintering the silence like a crack of a whip.  
"Holmes", it said, louder and more defined than before. More angry, Sherlock thought. He hopped from foot to foot for a moment. He really, _really _didn't want to see mother. But then there was that voice again and he felt like he had been struck.

"_Holmes!" _It said, the voice contemptuous and cruel, and Sherlock scuttled across the hallway to the door obediently. He heard the rasping of breath behind the door and he swallowed the painful lump beginning to form in his throat. Hesitantly, he reached out a hand, and then, closing his eyes as tight as they would go, he pushed open the door.  
The door creaked as it opened, moaning its despair already as Sherlock poked his head around the door. The room was darkened, and shadows were dancing on the walls. In the bed, a shadow was sat upright, watching him with beady eyes. He gulped a little, trying to swallow down as much far as he could, as if it was something tangible that he could touch. He opened his mouth a little, his tiny vocal chords struggling to make a sound other than a whimper.

"Ye-yes, m-mother?" he said, stumbling over the words. The figure laid in the bed seemed to smile, almost like a lion spotting its prey and it lifted one hand to beckon the tiny, shaking figure of Sherlock towards it.

"Come here, now, Holmes." The voice said. It was deceptively sweet and kind, the kind of voice that would melt butter, but so threatening in its nature that Sherlock had to force himself not to take a step back.

"Come here Holmes!" the voice commanded and Sherlock made a little "eep" noise as he scuttled forwards.

"Yes mother" he said, crossing the room. The figure nodded its approval.  
Sherlock's mother was a blonde haired woman, so dissimilar to Sherlock and Mycroft that it seemed almost improbable that they were related. They had both received their hair colour from their father, and only Mycroft had received his mother's eyes, Sherlock's own remaining the colour of a pale London sky, much like those of his uncle. His mother was shorter than the sizes to which her sons would eventually grow, even in their late teens they were a good few inches taller than her, and her face was round and practically flawless, Sherlock's own being more sharp and angulated. In fact, she passed very little to her sons in any way shape or form, refusing to even see them unless necessary. She blamed him. She blamed Sherlock for his father, for her illnesses, for everything she could imagine. Any possible way, any conceivable reason for torturing her son; she would take it in an instant, if only for someone to blame. She remained in her room most of the time, in bed or at her dressing table, becoming ill often and never wishing to see a doctor. Sherlock observed that she had lost weight since father had left and she looked gaunter than he had ever seen her. He hesitated  
to come near her, hovering by her bedside table.

She gave him a smile as he drew closer, and Sherlock cringed. It was a fake, almost sadistic smile, the kind of smile a predator gives its prey as it lures it into a trap. Sherlock gulped.

"Now, now, Holmes, are you not at school today?" she asked sweetly. To anyone else Sherlock would have said "Obviously". To Mycroft he would have told him to mind his own business.

"No mother" he said, not hesitating. Hesitating was bad when talking to mother. She would pounce on the soonest moment she could, always searching for the weakness in whatever she found.

"Oh, tut tut tut Sherlock, you need to go school you know. You need to give mummy peace and quiet, or she won't get better". To anyone else, Sherlock would have snorted and replied that they shouldn't be referring to themselves in third person. He sniffed a little.

"Sorry mother" was what he said instead. There was a little silence and Sherlock felt himself growing ever more uncomfortable in the darkened room. Then, mother's smile seemed to widen and she beckoned him closer until he was right by her bedside. She could see his form quaking, the wide eyes looking pleadingly into hers and it was the closest Sherlock Holmes had ever come to actually begging.

"Do you know why I am so thin Sherlock?" she said, lifting up an arm from under the bed covers and holding it up so that it was visible to him. Sherlock visibly paled, his eyes not leaving his mother's, except when, for one short moment, they flitted to the thin, skeletal-like arm before they flitted back to his mother's piercing eyes as they bored into his.

"N-no mother" he said, his rapid breath catching in his throat as she smiled midway through his stammered sentence. She turned the arm once, then twice to either side, looking at it in interest. Sherlock licked his lip in one rapid, nervous movement; he could see his mother's arm being slowly appraised from his corner of his eye.

"It's because of you" she said, finally in a nonchalant tone. The statement was simple, nothing more than stating a fact, but it made the breath catch in Sherlock's throat again.

"You," she continued, "make me sick". She leaned in close to hiss at him. "You make me physically ill, just to _look _at you". Sherlock froze and felt that familiar clot in his throat.

"You should never have been born," she growled, venom in her voice, "You were a _mistake. _An accident. A sick, twisted, ignorant _accident._"  
Sherlock felt something twist in his stomach and he felt the urge to throw up. _Accident. Mistake. _He could remember when his father had spat those words at him in his drunken stupors. His mother watched him closely now, revelling in every flinch that her mistake made when she spoke to it.

"To think, I was given _this _as a child." She grinned sadistically at his full-body flinch. "You are a _disease. _A worthless, useless contaminant."

Sherlock shook his head rapidly. God, why did his eyes feel hot? It felt like they were stinging. And they were blurry too, they stung like Hell, he couldn't see. "I'm not- not worthless" he said, his voice merely a squeak.

A resounding slap filled the room as his mother's hand struck him, his cheek blazing as he stumbled back, shocked.

"Don't you _dare _talk back to me!" she cried and Sherlock whimpered.

"Yes, yes, I'm sorry, I'm sorry mother" he said, clutching his blazing cheek.

"You have no right! You're not worthy to even talk to me, and don't you forget it!" She was angry now, angrier than Sherlock had seen in a long time and it scared him. He felt like running, running off to anyone, Mycroft even, _anything _to get away from her. But he was frozen, frozen to the same spot beside her bed.

"Spittingimage of your father" she hissed, growling out each syllable as if it hurt her entire body just to speak of him, "Always so arrogant, so cock-sure of yourself. Even have his face, filthy, ugly, _repugnant _little creature he was. You're his spitting image". Sherlock shrank from her anger and for once in his life wished Mycroft was there. He'd sort it out. He'd stop her, he'd make it go away, that shrieking, painful noise that seemed to rush in his head every time she spoke to him.

Sherlock yelped as his mother grabbed the collar of his pyjamas and pulled him close to her so that her mouth was right next to his ear. All too late, Sherlock realised that he had yelled out Mycroft's name. For help. To come save him. He swallowed convulsively as his mother sneered, making him flinch violently. _Please, _he begged silently, _please don't say it, please. _

"There's no one here to save you Holmes" she sneered. He whimpered, shaking his head desperately. _No, please, _please_ don't say it._

"And there will never _be _anyone here to save you. Who would want you? Who would want you when all you do is rip, and steal and _destroy. _Do you want that Holmes? Do you want to destroy people, do you want to hurt them?" she sneered. Sherlock shook his head frantically.

"Then never kid yourself. There will never be anyone who _will want _to save you Holmes. You will never be loved. Never be cared for. Don't deceive yourself to the contrary". Sherlock felt the tears streaking his face and he shook his head. _No, no, it's not….it can't, can't be true. That's not how things are supposed to be. Please. Please God. Please. _He felt himself being pulled closer and now she was close enough to whisper into his ear.

"Do you think, even for one moment in your life Holmes, that there will be? That there could be?"

He tried to say yes, he did, but the words didn't come. He shook his head. She shifted a little.  
"And do you think that you _deserve _that? Hmm?"

_No, please, don't. _His head shook despondently. There would never be anyone. There could never be anyone that amazing. So amazing that they would touch a disease like him and come out unscathed. So how could there ever be someone so unimaginable that they would _stay _with him? That could heal him? His mother smiled.

"And why is that Holmes? Why will no one ever come to save you?"

Sherlock blinked back hopeless tears. He knew the answer. "Be-because… I made you sick." He said simply, trying everything not to say the words she wanted to hear. She made a clicking sound.

"But why else, Holmes. Hmm? Why else?"

Sherlock took longer to think about this one but the words were already there, waiting, well-rehearsed, well known…well believed.

"I-I'm nothing" he said, his voice a whisper that echoed around the walls as if they were laughing at him, "T-there's no one to love me… because there is nothing inside me that could ever be loved." _Nobody could ever be that perfect that they would give up the rest of their life… to be with me. To beat my heart for me. _

His mother nodded slowly and let go of his collar, smoothing it down. "Perfect" she said, letting him go. He straightened slowly, his eyes averted and downcast, tears streaming down his face.

"Never forget that Holmes" she said, her sweet, kind, smiling demeanour back again. Tears streaked slowly down his face, as if they too were slow and sluggish in their sorrow.

_Over 6 billion people lived in the world. _Sherlock bowed his head. _Couples, families, friends. And yet, there was no one for me. _

"Sherlock? Sherlock?" Sherlock raised his head to look towards the door. That was Mycroft calling. He turned to his mother. She gave him a smile and the message was clear. _Even your own brother would leave you if he had the choice Holmes. _

Mycroft burst into the room with a clattering of the door. "Sherlock!" he cried, running to the small, shaking figure of his younger sibling. "It's okay Sherlock," he said, "It's okay, I'm here, it's alright". He crouched down to get on eye level with the younger boy, brushing away from of the boy's sweat and tear soaked hair from his face. "It's okay" he whispered again. He straightened up a little, seething eyes glaring at his mother who stared all too innocently back at him.

"Mummy," he began, refusing to back down to his mother, "What did you say to-"

"I said nothing. The boy just refuses to stop crying. It really is quite annoying, he's the most pathetic little creature you know" she said, cutting Mycroft off, her voice still as sweet as sugar. Mycroft tensed as Sherlock suddenly latched onto him, shaking, terrified arms wrapping themselves around his waist as he stood up against mother as if trying to ward him back.

"I will never know why your father stopped beating him when he was sober. Might have taken a bit longer, but it would have beaten some sense of place into the boy" she said matter-of-factly, the small smile beginning to creep across her face. Something whimpered from behind Mycroft, sounding almost like a lost puppy that had stood out in the rain all day and it took Mycroft a while to realise that it had come from Sherlock. Turning, he crouched again to eye level with Sherlock, holding him by each shoulder.

"Sherlock, go play on the landing for a bit okay? I'm just going to have a talk with mummy okay?" Sherlock nodded without hesitation and scuttled off, leaving Mycroft to breathe in a deep breath, his anger barely controlled behind incensed, murderous eyes.

"Mother," he said, his voice steady and even. He had not moved from where he was crouched, back turned to her. "What did you say to Sherlock?"

"I said nothing. He simply-"

"No! I will not hear of it!" Mycroft shouted, standing up and spinning around wildly in his anger, his eyes blazing in contempt. "You torture that boy every time you speak to him and I will not stand by and just let you hurt him any-"

"You forget your place!" mother cried

Mycroft felt his anger dissipate as his mother shouted the four words that he had predicted she would utter. The four words that ground upon him most, that cut him deepest. _His place. Lowest in the ranks, powerless to help even his little brother. Useless to do even that. _He bit his tongue as his stomach did a backflip. _Powerless. Useless. Lowest of them all. _He looked up at his mother for a moment and bowed his head again. She had won.

"Yes mummy" he said, his head still tilted down, "I'm sorry". He nodded his head and turned to leave.

"And don't forget to tell Holmes to remember what I said," his mother called after him. He stopped just short of the door, his hand already reaching for the door handle.

"Yes mummy" he said. He felt the handle click beneath his hand, and he stepped out, closing the door behind him. The walls seemed to still, watching, sneering and laughing at him. They had never been more ashamed, more disappointed with a tenant of the Holmes estate. Never so disgusted, Mycroft was sure. _Worthless, _they seemed to mutter, _didn't even try to protect his brother. _He shook his head, trying to clear it, but the whispers lingered in his head. He looked across the hall and there, sat on the top step of the staircase, was Sherlock, sat in silence, picking at loose threads in his pyjama bottoms. Mycroft walked over to him and with a hefty sigh, sat down next to him. They sat in silence for a moment, each thinking to themselves and dealing with the initial shock in deep, impenetrable silence. Then, Mycroft finally turned to his brother.

"You okay?" he said. Sherlock looked up at him. And burst into tears. Mycroft looked stunned for a moment as Sherlock wept, his small hands latching onto Mycroft's shirt and then burrowing his head in Mycroft's jacket, sobbing silently. Mycroft's heart softened and he pulled his arm around Sherlock, one hand holding him close as he wept into his jacket, his hands clutching his shirt as if Mycroft would leave if he let go. Mycroft put his other hand around him and drew circles on his back, letting Sherlock sob himself to sleep on his jacket. And he made himself a promise. He wouldn't be powerless to help Sherlock again, not ever. He'd climb the hierarchy, he'd get what he needed to keep him safe, and nothing would stand in the way of it.

"It's okay Sherlock," he whispered, planting a kiss onto Sherlock's dampened hair, "It's okay"


	2. He got away

A/N

Okay, first, a quick apology since the last chapter was so slow, but John has arrived at last (after much arguing with me about it in my head… I'm weird like that). So, never fear.

Next: Thank you to everyone who reviewed! Thank you SOOO much! It means so much to me whenever someone takes that time to tell me what to think, good or bad, so thank you so much, I appreciate it more than you can imagine!

I hope the name will make more sense in this chapter :-(

And to anyone interested about the scientific effects of excessive writing: I have set myself a 50,000 word goal this month and if anyone is interested: It is possible to live on nothing but nothing but writing (on paper, on the computer, in my head, whatever), oodles and oodles of cups of tea, fanfic and "Don't stop believing" by Journey.

**Disclaimer: **If Sherlock was mine, my username would be Mrs Storystuff Holmes. But, I still don't own nothin'

Anyway. Sorry for the long note guys, so here's the fanfic for your reading enjoyment. Just one note, this one skips and jumps around a lot on the timeline so watch out ;-)

* * *

Mycroft watched the scene unfold in Sherlock's flat via his hidden cameras. Well, mostly hidden, since Sherlock actually knew where 99% of them where. It had been more years than he cared to remember since Mycroft had promised to protect his brother and the secret cameras had become part of their everyday lives ever since Mycroft joined the secret service. Unfortunately, the secret service and cameras had also marked the final splinter in the already tense relationship between the brothers. After high school, Sherlock hadn't been exactly close to anyone, regularly pushing Mycroft out of his life in any way possible and had left for university before Mycroft could even address the matter. Despite the older brother's best efforts, he had never once been able to stop Sherlock taking his ever increasing doses of drugs or becoming a "consulting detective" or taking on far-too-dangerous dangerous cases and pushing everyone from his life. And yet, Mycroft couldn't stand to _not _interfere, even though now, he realised, he was making things worse. Sherlock hardly ever spoke to him anymore and when he did he would ignore him or make fun of him and his diets and Mycroft would be forced to take control, thus making Sherlock retaliate yet further. Whatever Mycroft did, he couldn't seem to pick up the pieces, he couldn't seem to connect with his younger brother anymore… he could never seem to meet him halfway anymore.

Now however, Mycroft watched the two men stood arguing in the flat. Sherlock had met up for a moment with Mycroft around three weeks after meeting John Watson and demanded the CCTV cameras be taken down. Mycroft hadn't agreed, but had agreed to take them down in John's room but kept up his cameras in the living room, kitchen and, of course, Sherlock's room. Unusually, Sherlock had seemed content with this and had left without as much as a fuss, which was cause for suspicion on Mycroft's part anyway. And now Mycroft sat in his office watching Doctor John Watson bicker with Sherlock Holmes. A few months ago, Mycroft would have deemed it impossible for Sherlock to have gotten this far, to have become so familiar with someone that he would actually feel comfortable enough to argue with them about the lack of milk or the comments on the other man's blogs. Mycroft had never exactly lost faith but he had never expected this, Sherlock Holmes, his own brother… in a flat share. And especially with someone as ordinary as John Watson. He sighed and leaned back in his chair. Maybe that was what Sherlock needed. Something solid, something stable… something ordinary.

Mycroft sighed and leant back in his chair. He scratched his head and smiled softly as he watched the argument unfold…

**Sherlock's POV**

John Watson was probably the most interesting and most unordinary person Sherlock Holmes had ever met. He supressed a smirk as John came angrily storming in from the kitchen.

"For Christ's sakes Sherlock, what the _hell _have you done to Gladstone now?" he shouted as he came through the kitchen to the living room. Sherlock did smirk at that. After the Moriarty incident at the pool, Sherlock had bought a puppy for the flat, levelling that it was probably nice and 'normal'. Normal had been good at that time, especially since John had been verily shaken up after the explosion and had been out of sync for weeks. They had inevitably put off naming the little English bulldog for ages until John had joined Sherlock in his first new case after the pool, a case of one Mr Elric Gladstone and subsequently, Sherlock named the dog to commemorate John re-joining him on cases once more. However, since then, Sherlock seemed to have done nothing but give the poor animal large amounts of narcotics and other strange drugs that John had never heard of.

"It's an experiment" Sherlock said. Sometimes, for all of his ordinary-but-not-ordinary-something-special-ness that Sherlock couldn't quite put his finger on, John could be quite stupid about these things. Sherlock found this quite ridiculous as, as a doctor, John should be able to understand these things when they're in the name of science.

"Oh for heavens- Sherlock, what have you done to him?"

"Oh do calm John; it's only a minor sedative" Sherlock assured, raising a curious eyebrow at John's concern for the bundle of fur. Personally Sherlock found it a rather vulgar creature with too many wrinkles and far too much fur. John sighed.

"Sherlock?" John said.

"Yes?"  
"We're out of milk".

Sherlock smiled.

_5 months earlier_

"Sherlock please, you have to do this" Mycroft said, standing in Sherlock's living room. The flat Sherlock was in was a mess, tiny and filthy with dripping pipes and peeling, decaying walls that seemed to scream at Mycroft every time he entered. Mycroft turned his nose up in disgust at the sordid room, looking at the slouched form of his brother, the younger man lying on the most vile couch Mycroft had ever seen, the original colour replaced with a very worrying bluey-green kind of colour that Mycroft put entirely down to Sherlock's experiments. Or worse. He sighed, rubbing his forehead as a headache already sprang up as he thought of how the conversation was turning out.

"You need to get a new flat" Mycroft said, looking around, counting the 1001 hazards clogging up the room, from the weird chemical stains to the almost completely collapsed ceiling from where Sherlock had shot at a pipe in the wall and it had burst.

"No" Sherlock said bluntly. Mycroft supposed that he was lucky to receive even that small response from his brother as he was usually poignantly ignored by his younger sibling.

"Sherlock, please-"

"No Mycroft, I'm on a case, I cannot afford to be changing flats now". Mycroft cut him off with a raised hand in the air to which Sherlock, for once, listened to. It was unusual. Sherlock usually ignored any commanding gestures Mycroft made and talked right over him, but for the past few months he had been ever more quiet and unresponsive and Mycroft was beginning to worry. He was unsure if Sherlock's job as a detective was entirely safe and he was worried… constantly. Especially when things happened like Sherlock getting shot in the arm like he had last week and Mycroft had literally had to force him to go to a hospital, eventually meaning sedating the young consulting detective in order to take him there. He was wondering if the stress, not to mention both the taunting and goading from those goddamn idiots at Scotland Yard that was no doubt only putting more bad feelings into his younger brother.

"A flat share then" Mycroft suggested. It would be difficult, of course, to find a flat share for his rather eccentric younger sibling, however if they could, then Mycroft wondered if it would help. If Sherlock needed someone else, someone to _fix _him. Sherlock looked at him incredulously, as if he had just suggested the most ridiculous thing in the world.

"A flat share?" Sherlock asked incredulously, "Has that diet caused you insanity Mycroft? Who will you find that would share a flat with _me_?" He gestured to the mouldy, rotting room around him, making his point. Mycroft tightened his hand on his umbrella.

"You need someone to control you Sherlock," Mycroft reasoned, "Someone to look after you".

"I don't need anyone to control me Mycroft, especially not when I'm on a case," Sherlock growled, venom in his voice. Mycroft sighed and shook his head. There was no getting through to his brother when he was like this.

"Sherlock, please. You need to give this a try. If you don't… if you don't… there may never be anyone left for you. It'll be too late and you'll never trust anyone, you'll push them away and I don't _want _that for you Sherlock. I don't want you to be alone." He said, amazed to find that his voice sounded desperate and pleading, even more so when he added a soft, "_Please _Sherlock"

Sherlock looked up at him, his head falling back to gaze at Mycroft, locks of brown hair crossing his face. Mycroft was stunned at just how much he reminded him of back then when he was only eight years old and had cried when mother had told him those dreadful things. He looked young, vulnerable almost and Mycroft felt himself wince at how much it still hurt his little brother.

"You don't understand" the younger man said simply, "You never understand". Mycroft sighed.

"Then _help _me to, Sherlock"

* * *

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking; sometimes I don't talk for days on end…would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other"

In the end, Mycroft had threatened Sherlock with a knighthood if he did not at least agree to meet a minimum of one person to be a flatmate to and now, five days later, here Sherlock was, in a lab, meeting the minimum one person. Right now however, Sherlock was scared stiff that he wouldn't be seeing anyone else. He was afraid that just maybe; this person would be the only one he'd have to meet.

Sherlock flashed the man a smile as he spoke. _The worst about each other, _his own mind chuckled to itself, _so that's not that you're a dangerous-to-be-around consulting detective with more enemies than fish in the sea, a way too over protective brother and semi high functioning sociopathic tendencies? _He retained his smile. _Well played Sherlock, _he thought to himself cheekily.

He continued to watch the man as he talked, remaining as cool as ever, but his mind was racing over every little detail of the older man. _Afghanistan army doctor, clean, neat, presumably compassionate, alcoholic brother, very little money, not much family. _All of these things flitted by in Sherlock's head as he observed the man. And yet, despite John Watson's ordinary appearance, there was something about him that did nothing but hold Sherlock's usually meandering attention, something that Sherlock couldn't quite put his finger on. And even though he tried his best not to show it, as soon as he left the lab he jumped in the air, grinning like he'd just found a case.

Five months later, and Sherlock still felt like jumping in the air every time John was around, every time they sat by the fire and watched crap TV at 221B, every time they chased criminals through the streets and Sherlock could think of no one he would want to be with otherwise. And yet, even after 5 months, for all of his attempts and analytical, deductive prowess, the Great Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, could not yet fathom why he couldn't bear to believe that his blogger would ever leave him.

Tonight was one such night.

"This way John!" Sherlock cried as they dashed through the streets of London, the wind billowing in his long coat, tugging at his scarf like a playful Gladstone on a far-too-early kind of Sunday morning. Adrenaline soared through him at every hit of feet against concrete as he chased through the streets, the map in his head lighting his route like a beacon. John was close behind, panting softly, but still managing to keep pace with the consulting detective. His blogger was at his side again, Sherlock thought, grinning from ear to ear and a strange feeling swept through him, as if someone had just made him drink a warm drink and it made him feel as if his chest was about to burst, and not from the running either. If he had asked John about it he would probably have said that it was pride in something or other and Sherlock would have blushed and mumbled something about pride being another pointless emotion. But as soon as John would have left, he would have given a small smile before returning to whatever he was doing.

Tonight they were chasing a murderer named Jack Blaine, a man Sherlock knew to have killed his own wife. By all respects, Sherlock was not going to let him get away. He grinned as he raced through the streets, John not far behind. It hadn't taken him long to figure out the killer, in fact, it had been a matter of only around a half hour but for some reason, as Sherlock ran, he found himself slipping further and further behind. Admittedly, it was very rare that he slept or ate (or even drank for that matter) but there was nothing overly unusual about that, Sherlock had done it many a time, for as long as he could remember in fact, and had always still been able to keep up and catch the villain, no matter what. So why was John so close behind? Usually John was halfway down the street as Sherlock sprinted on ahead, so why was Sherlock struggling so much? In fact, all day Sherlock had been feeling drowsy, and warm, why did he feel so warm all the time? Surely it wasn't natural. And even yesterday, yesterday had been warm too, even though it had rained all day.

He rounded a corner and all of a sudden his world swam. Dizziness took him and he staggered back, a hand going to his head. John rounded the corner and slammed into Sherlock but luckily keeping his balance. John stepped closer to him in surprise. Sherlock had stopped, clutching his head. Sherlock hardly ever stopped on a chase. John frowned, concerned, reaching out a hand to his flatmate. Sherlock groaned and John felt his heart skip a beat.

"Sherlock?" he said softly, his hand inches away from Sherlock's shoulder. Giving a groan, Sherlock tried to move forwards.

"Need to... catch him...go" Sherlock panted, his words coming out garbled and slurred.

"Sherlock, take a breath, take a deep breath in and out or you'll not get enough oxygen in" John advised, his doctor sense kicking in, keeping the panic about his obviously sick flatmate at bay. Sherlock had been looking awfully hot and drowsy all day, his usually pale cheeks tinted with pink and he almost dropped off in Lestraude's office, an unnatural sight for even the senior police detective inspector. Sherlock made another move to go but he swayed dizzily and fell back a little, staggering. John caught him before he fell and Sherlock felt his vision begin to fade. The last thing he remembered were John's strong arms wrapping around his waist as he fell towards the ground and all he could remember thinking was "Damn, Jack Blaine got away"

* * *

_**A/N **_Ok, so lots of jumping around then :) Don't worry, next chapter is filled with H/C goodness and your daily nutritional 5 a day of Sick!Sherlock and Caring!John :-)


	3. Swallow

**A/N: **_Alright, Sick!Sherlock! Lols, I'm a sadist. Okay: Thanks again for anyone who read and extra-special-super-mega thanks to everyone who reviewed, you awesome peoples you! Seriously though, thank you guys __**so **__much! It means a lot :) And to everyone else who author, story alerted or favourited, it all gives me an extra reason to love all of you guys!_

_Sorry if you've been waiting, but here it is! (And I guess *waits for pelting of various fruits at my face* a week is not too bad, especially since it's me :D) *Ah! Not the face!*_

_Anyway, hope you enjoy these chapters as much as I am enjoying writing these! _

_**Disclaimer: **__Evil plots to go back in time and make Sherlock myself have been thwarted since I realised my time machine was a mixture between a toaster and a shower head. Now I can only make soggy toast. And Sherlock is still not mine. *Begins another evil plot to get __him __the show in my hands* _

_

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"Hey wait, Sherlock, keep still!"

Sherlock snarled and twisted once again out of John's reach. John sighed. He had attempted more times than he could remember to try and get Sherlock to go to a hospital but the stubborn detective was having none of it and had refused expressively, which meant that the consultant was now back at home in 221B. John had ordered Sherlock to bed at one point but, Sherlock being Sherlock, he had ignored him completely and gone to sit on the sofa, sweeping up some case files as he did so, flicking through them with a nonchalance that made John practically twitch in annoyance.

"Sherlock!" he cried, snatching away the case files in indignation. He couldn't believe Sherlock was just ignoring the fact that only an hour or so ago he had collapsed in a back alley and was not only refusing to go to hospital, but was carrying on a case too! John took a steady breath, trying hard to keep his patience. Sherlock didn't know that John had spent the worst eight minutes of his life, desperately trying to wake him up. He didn't know that he'd been frantically trying everything he could to try and see the detective's cool, asserting eyes again. But even if Sherlock didn't know, John was still furious that he would just let it go.

"Sherlock, you collapsed, you need to rest" John said, sighing in exasperation. Sherlock looked up at him with a raised eyebrow.

"Oh, I'm sorry Mycroft I didn't realise you'd come to visit me" Sherlock mocked, his voice almost a snarl, "Stop being such a mother hen John. You're beginning to sound like my brother".

"Good, it'd knock some sense into you" John quipped back. Okay, so Sherlock didn't like being looked after, he could deal. John had surely had more difficult patients back in Afghanistan, right? He looked back to Sherlock who had snatched the case files from him and was sat reading them closely. Or maybe not, John thought.

An hour or so later, John had eventually got Sherlock to sleep. "Got him to sleep" wouldn't be John's favourite choice of words, but still. He wasn't exactly proud of how he had managed it, but John knew that as both a doctor and Sherlock's friend, he had had to be cruel to be kind.

John hadn't been sure at first if sleep was a good idea. He was still sure that Sherlock would need a hospital; in fact Sherlock come round just as John had dialled 999, at which point he had dumped the phone and rushed to Sherlock's aid. However, although John had no issues at all with taking care of Sherlock, he also had no clue as to why he had collapsed in the first place since Sherlock wouldn't even let him go near him with a thermometer. It could be flu, or exhaustion, or Sherlock's habit of not eating, or it could be worse. Without proper scans at a hospital, John couldn't be sure that it wasn't something serious, he had seen men collapse from heat exhaustion and their brains had swelled in the heat and when they had fallen asleep that night, they hadn't ever woken back up again. He also knew that collapsing could be a symptom of bigger things that had yet to show signs of.

In the end, after weighing up the pros and cons of making Sherlock go to bed, and the likelihood of it being dangerous to his health, John had come to conclusion that the only way to be sure that Sherlock would be okay to sleep was something John wasn't entirely comfortable with himself. Feeling more and more like a traitor, he came in from the kitchen into the living room where Sherlock, was amazingly, actually eating the sandwich that John had given him a moment ago, which was unusual for the consulting detective who usually never ate anything on a case, let alone a whole sandwich. Mind you, John thought, I don't think he'd really have the energy not to. The consulting detective looked shocking under the light in the flat, his face as white as a sheet and his eyes looked tired and clammy, so unlike Sherlock's usually sparky eyes that it made John's heart clench for him.

"Sherlock?" John said tentatively.

"Yes John," came the reply, the brunette's eyes never leaving the case files he was reading.

"Um… I was just wondering if you could take a few pills for me." John said. Sherlock turned to look at him and John felt even more of a villain when he saw the suspicion in Sherlock's eyes. He wasn't happy about asking Sherlock, especially when he knew for a fact that Sherlock wouldn't like the idea.

"What are they, what do they do?" Sherlock asked sceptically. John winced at that. The answer was already no, he could tell, but not only that, Sherlock was now suspicious enough that he was asking questions. John felt like a traitor. _Come on John, snap out of it, _he scolded himself. He was a doctor too, not just Sherlock's flatmate and he knew for a fact that this was the only way to be sure that nothing would happen to Sherlock for the time being, no matter what the problem was. However, he still couldn't meet Sherlock's eyes as he spoke. It also didn't stop the other half of his brain screaming "Traitor!" at him. John duly noticed that the other half of his brain was shouting in a voice that sounded a lot like Sherlock's.

"Um… I need you to take some sleeping pills Sherlock" John said, "They'll probably knock you out for the night, but they'll also reduce any swelling you may have after collapsing so you'll be okay to-"

"Sleeping pills?" Sherlock said, as if it had only just registered, "No way! No way! I'm not taking any pills John and that's final! I have a case to attend to; we have a murderer on the loose!"

John felt his heart sink. Sherlock looked terrible, he needed to rest, but he knew from experience that Sherlock hated sleeping pills. Two months ago, Sherlock had been forced to take sleeping pills by his brother Mycroft, as in Mycroft had literally gotten one of his government agents to make him swallow the pill as Sherlock never ate or drank on a case anyway so there had been no chance to put it in anything he voluntarily took. The incident had never been spoken of between John and Sherlock, but when John had gone to see Mycroft, absolutely fuming, he had actually hit the older Holmes brother as soon as he had seen him, telling him that he was a stupid bastard and never to touch Sherlock again. Needless to say, John had been furious when he had discovered Sherlock had been drugged by his own brother, especially when Mycroft later told him that he had "Simply wanted a chat" and ad merely given John a strange kind of, almost proud looking, smile when he had hit him.

Snapping back to the present, John felt worse as he realised he was trying to make Sherlock take pills he didn't want as well. "Okay Sherlock" he said, getting up to go back in the kitchen. He watched Sherlock through the arch from the kitchen to the living room and pondered. He didn't like the idea of forcing Sherlock to take a pill, that would make him no better than Mycroft, even if John did have a better reason to do it than Mycroft. However, John also knew that if he didn't, either Sherlock would get much worse from the lack of sleep, or he could fall asleep by himself (unlikely) and run a high risk of the problem getting worse. Hardening his heart, he grabbed some stuff from the side and went back into the living room, tying to think of Sherlock as any other patient. But it was more and more difficult as he knew that Sherlock wasn't just any ordinary patient.  
"Fine then, open up" John said as he sat down next to Sherlock. Sherlock looked at him incredulously.  
"I did just say no to taking the pills John" Sherlock said blandly.

"Yes, I know Sherlock. But I thought we could meet at a compromise" John said with a sigh, holding up a thermometer.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and John braced himself for a biting remark.

"Well John, I knew you were interested, but I did tell you on our first case I consider myself married to my work" Sherlock said snarkily. John winced. Yep, there it was. It was nice to hear Sherlock joking, especially at a time like this, but Sherlock would take any chance to make fun of _that _conversation, much to John's dismay.

"Yes, yes, very funny Sherlock." John said, internally groaning at Sherlock's smart innuendo, "But actually I'm just going to make a deal okay? I take your temperature, no pills. _Or _take the pills and I won't need to take your temperature." John winced inside as he reminded himself that this was not the case, even though John probably would need an accurate temperature, especially judging by the fact that he could already feel how warm Sherlock was from where he was sat, a rulers length away from him.

Sherlock frowned at him.

"I'm a doctor Sherlock" John reasoned, "I need data just as much as you do. As a doctor I either need to treat the immediate symptoms or gain some data before a diagnosis. So it's either pills or thermometer." Sherlock looked at him, giving him a small smile of what seemed to be amusement.  
"Apologies for getting in your way Doctor Watson" Sherlock grinned. John rolled his eyes. Sherlock usually used his full title to jibe the ex-army soldier. It seemed Sherlock had a strange talent to be the only person to be able to make a prestigious title into something to dig at someone. Typical.

"Thermometer" Sherlock said suddenly.

"What?"

"I'd rather the thermometer. I don't particularly mind thermometers as much if it'll stop you mothering me" Sherlock said dryly. John repressed an apologetic look as his inner commentary on the situation reminded him of the pill in his other hand.

"You're not going to give me anything else though, are you John?" Sherlock said. John frowned. Did Sherlock know about the pills in his other palm? It sounded like it, the way the detective's voice sounded almost resigned, as if he knew what John was planning, as if he was checking that John wouldn't try anything other than that.

"No Sherlock, just the thermometer" John said. He decided to not say anything, just in case Sherlock didn't know.

Sherlock didn't relax but he leant back a little as John sat closer to hold out the thermometer.

"Okay then, let's get this over with before you change your mind or something" John muttered, "Open up". Sherlock looked at him suspiciously once more and opened his mouth a little. John couldn't help but laugh.

"Yeah, a little wider Sherlock or else we won't get anywhere with this" John laughed. Sherlock gave him a scowl but complied. Nodding, John put the thermometer into Sherlock's mouth and looked at his watch.

"Give it a minute" John said, sitting back a little so as not to crowd Sherlock. Giving a little growl of frustration Sherlock put his chin on his hand, the thermometer poking out of his mouth as he picked up the case files again. They sat in silence as John counted a minute and leaned forwards.

"Okay then Sherlock, let's have a look" John said, leaning forwards. It was now or never, John thought. Sherlock opened his mouth and John decided to get as close as he could in an effort to make it easier. Shuffling forward a little as close as he could so that his knee was touching Sherlock's, John pushed down a little on the thermometer and leaned over to look inside Sherlock's mouth, pretending to make it seem as if he was checking the colour of Sherlock's tongue like he did with most flu patients. Even though Sherlock wasn't exactly a normal patient. Sherlock looked stunned for a moment and moved his head back.

"Calm down Sherlock, I'm only checking your tongue colour, seeing if you've got flu or something," he forced a grin at Sherlock, "I'd make you say 'ah' but I decided against it".

Sherlock looked annoyed and folded his arms indignantly but let John take a look. Seeing his chance, and hating himself for it, John decided that it was now or never. As fast as he could, John lifted up his other hand and quickly put a pill into Sherlock's mouth. They were strong, enough to take down swelling but also strong enough to knock Sherlock out all night. Not something John was entirely comfortable with doing, especially if Sherlock didn't swallow and hid the pill. If John gave him another, the dose could be dangerous. He needed to make him swallow first time.

Sherlock gave a cry of surprise, jerking back his head, the pill already at the back of his throat. Whether he had known about the pill or not, he hadn't been expecting John to actually try it and drew back in surprise, coughing wildly. John, his insides churning with guilt, lightly put a hand on Sherlock's chin and tilted it back, a trick he learned in med school on how to aid someone swallowing a pill. The model patient however was usually voluntary and John had to deflect a sharp jab from Sherlock that had been aimed at his stomach. Sherlock squirmed and tried to move away but John was far too close in and Sherlock gave a very un-Sherlock like whimper as he realised that he was trapped. John almost let go at the whimper and only the thought of "This will make Sherlock better" stopped him from doing so.

"Please Sherlock, just swallow it" John said. Sherlock couldn't cough it up due to the angle of his neck but he was also blatantly refusing to swallow it. Sherlock shook his head. John gave him a sympathetic look.

"Sherlock, I swear, it'll make you better if you just rest, but you need to swallow the pill" John pleaded. Sherlock glared at him. For a moment no one moved. Then, slowly, Sherlock swallowed. John didn't let go. He wasn't stupid. The way Sherlock's jaw was still clenched, the way his throat had far too easily swallowed the pill even at that angle, the way the Adams apple had only moved a little.

"Sherlock I may not be a detective, but I am a doctor. Swallow the pill". Sherlock managed a snarl in frustration as he realised John knew he hadn't really swallowed the pill.

"Sherlock please," John said. For all of his brains, Sherlock knew there was little other options that to swallow it or stay here until he did. Glaring at John hatefully, he swallowed and the pill went down, causing Sherlock to cringe. John nodded and let go of Sherlock, who moved back as soon as he could, making John feel even worse.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry, I really am, but you need to rest. I-"

"John, I do not wish to speak to you right now," Sherlock growled and John looked away guiltily. Sherlock was already beginning to look drowsy.

"You…you need you to get better Sherlock" John said quietly. Sherlock looked over at him spitefully but didn't say anything. John decided to continue.

"You need to get better. You have no idea how worried I was…" he said before getting an idea, looking up at Sherlock with a grin "And we have a criminal to catch besides, and we're not going to be going anywhere if you keep on falling over all the time!"

Sherlock's gaze remained the same for a moment but then a spark came back to them and he relented, giving a short huff of laughter and smiling. John felt like his heart would explode just to know that he was okay enough to smile. He was looking more and more sleepy and John moved a little closer in case he needed to stop Sherlock from falling once he was out.

"I didn't fall over" Sherlock smiled. "I _collapsed. _As a doctor you should know the difference" Sherlock jibed. John gave a chuckle.

"Yeah, whatever. If this appears on my blog then you _fell._" John smirked. Sherlock probably would have given a look of outrage at that but his eyes were already beginning to droop and John felt a pang of guilt as he remembered just why that was.

"Don't… you dare" Sherlock breathed and John saw his shoulders begin to sag a little, as if the weight of the world had been taken off of them. John helped him lean back of the sofa and Sherlock seemed to be almost asleep by the time he did so.

"I'm sorry I made you take the pill Sherlock" John whispered, thinking the detective was asleep at last, looking up in surprise when the brunette whispered almost inaudibly to him.

"John". John looked at him in surprise.

"Yeah?"

"I don't mind" he said, and then the weakest of smiles appeared, "I don't like pills… but I knew you had it". Then Sherlock's eyelids drooped and John watched his breathing level out as he fell asleep. He stayed there for a few minutes, just watching Sherlock's chest rise and fall slowly. _Of course Sherlock had known you'd had the pill,_ the logical part of his mind said. _He is the world's only consulting detective after all, _it said. Then another part of his brain kicked in and he smiled. _He still let you give him it though. _He looked at the peaceful look on the detective's face and realised he had rarely, in fact no, _never, _seen Sherlock look so peaceful. In fact, he had only ever seen Sherlock sleep twice in the whole time he'd known him and even then the detective seemed to move every minute into a new, even more awkward, position. It seemed almost abnormal to see Sherlock so quiet. It was unnerving. But, John reassured himself, Sherlock needed the sleep.

Moving Sherlock so he was laid down more comfortably on the sofa (even though Sherlock usually slept in much more awkward positions, he had once found him lying half on, half off of the sofa) so that he could rest a bit better, John got up to go get his laptop to blog while he kept a still watchful eye on Sherlock. As he got up to leave, he remembered the temperature he had seen as he had taken the thermometer from Sherlock's mouth and felt a shudder. 42°C. He looked down at the thermometer on the coffee table and felt worry creep into him. Whatever Sherlock had, it wasn't going to be leaving anytime soon.


	4. Tomato and Black Pepper

**A/N **_So. Tired. Must. Sleep. :D Yeah, this is a sleep deprived Storystuff reporting to you from Bedfordshire at 4:22am, a time in which most mere mortals are usually asleep. But alas! There is no rest for the wicked/sadists/evil overlords of various types therefore I bring you gifts of fanfiction in these too-early hours…._

_Yeah, this is what 6 hours of sugar fuelled Just Dance 2 and Ryan Reynolds goggling does to you… I fhave lost what little sanity I ever kept locked up (as a pet) in my brain. I wish it farewell and good luck on its travels. _

_Anyway, thanks again to all reviewers, especially to all those people who have stuck with me! I was going to add mother-bashing into this chapter __**however **__do not hate me for leaving it till the next chapter (please *puppy eyes*) This chapter turned out a smidgem longer than I originally thought so instead of adding on a bit of short 'revealing of evil mother' in at the end of this chapter, I thought I'd give it its own chapter (next chapter) and really get into it. And do it properly as one would say __(when I have had at least 1 hours sleep). So please don't hate me, it's for a reason :D_

_Anywhos, __**Disclaimer time: **__(I usually forget to write these, I'm such a terrible, evil person) Mission: Steal Sherlock- Update: _

_The evil flying monkeys were fine till I gave them sugar. Now they're uncatchable, making a mess of my batcave and completely trashing my precious DVD collection. "Hey, stop it, don't you dare touch my Sherlock Holmes DVD you fiends, back, back!" *Throws stick and is attacked by evil winged monkey things* "Ahh! Help me!" _

_And they still haven't stolen me Sherlock._

_P.S If my friend Watson ever reads this, Sherlock's pink blankie is on third layer up on his pile of blankets in this fic. Just a note _

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Sherlock woke to the soft light coming in through the windows. The room was light but empty and the London mist outside was only just beginning to clear. Rubbing his eyes, Sherlock listened for any sounds in the still, silent flat. On any other day, Sherlock would have been longing for noise, for any kind of disruption at all, but for some reason, today, Sherlock was happy to have the blissful quiet all to himself for once. Although he found this highly unusual, instead of analysing this feeling like he normally would, he let it slip and allowed the feeling to wash over him. The only thing missing, Sherlock thought, was John. He knew that the doctor was probably in his room somewhere, feeling guilty for trying to trick his observant flatmate, but to be honest, Sherlock didn't mind. All he wanted right now, except for the peace and quiet of the empty room, was John's company, which seemed a tad contradictory when Sherlock ran it through his brain, but he let it slide.  
Coughing, he gave a gasp as everything hit him in one sweeping wave. His head exploded in pain and he clutched it, realising for the first time just how thirsty he was and just how much his body _ached_. Everything hurt. He groaned as he realised that the light hurt too and he shut his eyes, laying a hand over them, his stomach sinking as he realised that the momentary calm had left him. And with that gone too, he remembered the other thing he had wanted around.

"John?" Sherlock called. There was a clatter from upstairs and Sherlock's head pounded at the sound and he realised that his stomach rebelled at every throb. He heard running down the stairs and would have smiled as he realised that John literally had dropped everything to get to him. He looked up to see him enter and immediately regretted the sudden movement. Vision swaying, Sherlock could only catch a glimpse of John grabbing the waste paper bin and running forwards, just in time to hold back Sherlock's long locks from the side of his face as he retched into the bin, emptying the sandwich that had been in his stomach, despite it being the only thing in there. Sherlock continued to dry retch for a moment until John pulled him back, the straightening of his stomach relaxing his stomach muscles, stopping the retching at last and Sherlock could relax, flopping back down onto the sofa.

John flitted around Sherlock nervously. He looked as if he was in pain and he hacked out a series of harsh coughs as John eased him back, John's own throat feeling raw just from the sound of it, wincing as Sherlock leaned forwards a little, clutching his chest as it tightened painfully.

"You okay?" John asked. It was a stupid question, but Sherlock got why he'd asked it at least and gave a sharp nod, telling John that he had finished emptying his stomach and John was able to get rid of the bin. Checking Sherlock's pulse rate and counting out a rather thready, irregular beat, he put a hand on Sherlock's heat and sucked in air through his teeth as he realised Sherlock had not gotten better but in fact had gotten worse. Kneeling by the sofa, John kept his hand on Sherlock's forehead, more for reassurance than anything. It was probably a bad case of flu, but Sherlock being as he was, he had made it worse with dehydration and exhaustion, meaning John had no clue how long it was going to take to get him better. He put a hand on the back of Sherlock's chest as he coughed, the dry air ripping at the inside of his throat painfully and John winced at the harsh movement of Sherlock's battered sounding lungs. This was not going to be an easy ride.

_Heard you've been having some problems. MH. _John read the text and sighed.

_Sherlock won't eat soup. He's ill. JW. _John texted back, looking through the kitchen at Sherlock. He had apologised again, much to Sherlock's annoyance and John felt relieved that Sherlock had allowed him to fuss over him for most of the morning, giving him blankets when he was cold (which seemed worryingly often) and generally mothering him since, although Sherlock was yet to find out, John had called in sick at work to get out of it, refusing to leave his sick flatmate. He checked his mobile. A minute ago he had made some chicken soup in the kitchen and brought it through insisted that Sherlock ate some. Groaning, Sherlock had taken one look at and proceeded to dry retch over the arm of the sofa, struggling to sit up to ease the ache in his chest. John put his hand on Sherlock's back to help the spasm and scratched at it lightly to calm the detective's scratchy chest.

"I hate chicken soup" Sherlock groaned. John gave a weak smile.

"Come on Sherlock, just a few spoonfulls. It'll make you better" he said, offering the bowl. Sherlock sniffed it and crinkled his nose.

"Fallacy." Sherlock said, "It's the placebo effect, chicken soup actually does nothing for you even if you are sick". John raised an eyebrow.

"Well it won't be the placebo effect if you keep debunking the idea. And anyway, it soothes the throat" John said.

"Tea is soothing"  
"Tea has caffeine and caffeine is no good for someone with flu".

Sherlock growled but the growl turned into a full body shiver and he almost imperceptibly drew further into the covers. John pulled them up a little so they covered his neck before sitting intently, waiting. Sherlock scowled. He felt awful. He felt as if he's put through a meat grinder and then super-glued back together. And he was sticky with sweat too and his wondering, disarrayed mind could only think of if that was how superglue felt.  
"I'm not eating it" he said. John growled and got up, mumbling to himself.

"Fine, you win, I'll make something else" John said.

John looked down at his phone as he stood in the kitchen, the phone bleeping a message alert.

_He doesn't like chicken. MH. _

_I kinda guessed. JW. _John sighed, and then pressed a few more keys.

_Any tips? JW. _He waited for a response.

_He only likes tomato soup. He likes it with loads of pepper. And he only likes that tinned stuff, homemade is no good. He really is fussy. MH._

John looked at the text message in surprise. He didn't know Mycroft knew that much about his brother's life, let alone his food preferences.

_And if he is really very sick, don't scare him. MH. _John frowned.

_Why would I scare him? JW_

_He's more sensitive when he's sick that's all. Don't make too many loud noises. He gets jumpy when he's sick. MH_

_Why? JW_

There was no reply. It was strange, Mycroft usually always replied to text messages. John shrugged, getting down to making the soup. Whatever it was, it'd have to wait.

John wondered into the living room and felt his heart drop at the sight of his dishevelled flatmate. Sherlock's eyes were red and watery looking and they looked as if they itched something terrible if the way Sherlock kept rubbing them had any indication. John had told him to stop rubbing them, that it'd make them worse but he'd eventually given up, Sherlock's eyes streaming from excess water as his eyes tried to lubricate themselves against the stinging. He looked tired too, exhausted, and John's stomach clenched as he thought about Sherlock's usually wide awake demeanour.

"Sherlock?" john asked, intending to ask the detective if he'd eat the new soup he'd made when the detective gave a startled cry and jumped, almost falling off the sofa had John not rushed to stop him.

"I'm sorry!" Sherlock cried, flinching away as John stopped him from tipping off the end of the sofa.

"I didn't mean to!" the detective shouted and John saw something akin to fear in Sherlock's usually calculating eyes. John watched as the detective's eyes flitted around, taking everything in. Frowning, John put a hand on Sherlock's cheek, ignoring Sherlock's cold sweat as he turned the detective's gaze so that it rested on him.

"Sherlock?" John said. Sherlock seemed to recognise his voice and his eyes snapped to meet John's. For a moment it seemed as if Sherlock didn't recognise him and John began to worry that the fever was causing confusion but then recognition dawned on him and Sherlock quickly turned his head in embarrassment. John frowned and sat down properly on a bit of free sofa down near Sherlock's stomach and watched Sherlock as he swallowed a few times, as if literally swallowing down his sudden fear.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" No answer. "And…and what did you say sorry for?"

Sherlock looked at him and sighed, and suddenly he looked more tired than John had ever seen him. He seemed to suddenly droop as if he was a flower that had wilted once the winter came and John felt his heart soften in pity. John realised he looked older like this, he seemed to look more his age than when he was bounding around celebrating murders. John didn't like it one bit.

"I got sick again" Sherlock said without explaining. John blinked, expecting more. So? Everyone got sick once in a while, it's not like someone could just become immune to all diseases just because they wanted to. Even someone as infallible as Sherlock. John gave Sherlock another blank look.

"And?" John said. Sherlock looked down in shame and John felt a pang of concern. Sherlock felt guilty over catching the flu? How could he feel guilty over something so uncontrollable in the first place? It wasn't fair on the detective to feel guilt over such an unpredictable thing.

"I…" Sherlock rode out an impromptu coughing fit and allowed John to pat his back until it cleared. "I promised that I wouldn't get sick again" Sherlock admitted. "When I was little. I remembered telling Mycroft that I wouldn't ever get sick again if he didn't make me stay with…" he paused and when he continued his sentence, he had missed out a word "Again". John frowned in confusion.

"Who?"

Sherlock shook his head as if clearing it and picked up the bowl of soup on the side. He sniffed it and smiled.

"Did Mycroft text you?" he asked and John nodded. Sherlock gave a small, knowing smile.

"Need anything else?" John asked.

"Jelly and ice cream would be nice doctor Watson" Sherlock goaded.

"Yeah, don't push your luck. I'm off to fill a hot water bottle. Eat your soup" John teased and got up. Sherlock was a bad enough eater as it was without someone sat watching him.

Wincing in pain as he laid back, Sherlock filled up a spoon with soup and sipped, giving a weak smile, realising it was pretty much all he could manage. Mycroft remembers food best of all, Sherlock thought teasingly in his head. But when he really thought about it, he was pretty sure the strange warm feeling inside wasn't just the soup. Sherlock couldn't stand Mycroft, but he knew he didn't have to stand him to be his brother.

When John decided that Sherlock was done eating, he went back in, carrying a hot water bottle and thermometer. Sitting down, he shifted the now empty soup bowl onto the floor and reached to put the thermometer in Sherlock's mouth. That was when he realised that Sherlock was asleep. John blinked in surprise. Even when he was ill, seeing Sherlock asleep was a strange sight on its own, like catching a rare shooting star on the off-chance. Sherlock was slumped, arm hanging over the end of the sofa, looking more exhausted while he slept than when he was awake. John smiled. Quietly, he moved the bowl and carefully slipped the hot water bottle underneath one of the layers of Sherlock's blankets. Sherlock was still shivering slightly in his sleep even though he had a light sheen of sweat on his skin that worried John about if being wet would make Sherlock worse but was forced to ignore since there was really very little he could do to help his suffering flatmate. Tucking the covers under him, he sighed and went to sit on the armchair, within viewing distance of Sherlock, just in case. Sighing, he settled down with his laptop while Sherlock slept.

An hour or two later, John's head snapped up from his laptop and he listened in the half darkness of the flat. He hadn't been bothered to turn on the lights for risk of waking Sherlock up and now it was about six o' clock and the sun outside was setting over the tops of the London skyline, disappearing behind the houses and skyscrapers. He pushed down the lid of his laptop, listening keenly. There it was again, the faintest sound, a tiny whimper in the growing darkness. There was a high whine and something shifted and John's blood ran cold as he realised what it was. Standing up, he ran over to Sherlock, stopping midway in shock as he took in Sherlock's state. Worry and something close to panic seized him and, wasting no time, he dropped to his knees and put a hand on the quaking man's shoulder.

* * *

**A/N **_Cliff hanger! Not much really, it's not too hard to know what's up with Sherlock. Or maybe that's just because I'm writing it (?) Anyway, I'll be updating soon guys!  
And L, there's gunna be some brotherly love soon, don't you worry :)_


	5. Confessions

_**A/N **__My body clock = destroyed. Irretrievably. _

_Anyway, first: Thanks again to everyone who reviewed, favourited or alerted, it means more than the entire world to me to see people reading this, so thank you so much!_

_Second: I am really, really, really (times 100,000) sorry that it took me an added week (on top of my usual week) to post. I've not been insanely busy or anything, it's just I could never find the right way to write this chapter and to be honest, I'm still not happy with it, however I continue to keep on writing and rewriting this it'll never get posted so I may as well post it now while I still have my sanity. So yeah, still not happy, especially since I like the content but just can't seem to write it properly. Next chapter should be easier on my poor tattered ego (it is currently in the remodelling stage, I'm getting the writing part totally revamped and the amazingly-good-looking zone is getting a new fitting). I should have rebuilt my ego by then so no worries :) Lols :)_

_Finally: This chapter has LOTS of dialogue. I mean it, there are tonnes. Sorry :S Couldn't help it. _

_**Disclaimer**__: Mission: Steal Sherlock- Update: _

_Trying to kidnap Benedict Cumberbatch = failed. __I attempted it (with no help from the winged monkeys may I add. They're currently slacking off in my batcave by the pool table with cans of beer that I don't even own. I won't ask them where they got them…they scare me. *Monkey hisses at me* EEK! RUN AWAY! *Runs away swiftly*) by blindfolding him and trying to steal him away in a cab in an attempt to smuggle him away for myself. Unfortunately it backfired and just like in the recent Sherlock Holmes film, he deduced where we were, who I was and what I wanted him for before escaping elaborately and impossibly. Damn.  
__*Returns to drawing board*  
__These disclaimers are getting longer. I worry. _

_

* * *

_

Sherlock whimpered as John gripped his shoulder, giving him a light shake. The younger man was definitely asleep but John could tell easily from the sporadic movements, not the mention the admittedly alarming intermittent sobs, that Sherlock was suffering a nightmare, and a bad one at that.

"Sherlock," John said, trying to make his voice as level as he could make it. In a dream, any outside noise could be perceived as bad, especially in a nightmare as bad as this. John knew this from experience and panicking Sherlock was the last thing he wanted to do right now. He gave the man another small shake and repeated his name out loud, but it only seemed to intensify the detective's frantic whimpering.

"Please," Sherlock breathed suddenly, making John stop in surprise, "Please…don't, I'm sorry". John was stunned for a moment. Sherlock was begging. Pleading with him even.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whimpered again and John could do nothing but stare for a moment. Sherlock didn't beg. He didn't ever cry or curl up away from him as if he had scolded him and he definitely, definitely didn't apologise. John felt something twist in his stomach as Sherlock shrank back desperately from whatever entity was haunting his nightmare.

"Sherlock, wake up Sherlock, it's just a dream, it's okay. It's just me" John whispered, trying not to startle the younger man but still tried shaking his shoulders lightly.

"No, no" Sherlock muttered and he drew back, away from John's touch as if his very life was in danger if he let him touch him. John paused and decided on a different tactic.

"Sherlock," John said softly, keeping his distance, "It's John. You're having a nightmare Sherlock but you just need to listen to my voice now". John knew from certain patients he had received from Afghanistan that sometimes physical contact wasn't enough to wake a patient. Sometimes it was too much for the mind to take during a nightmare like this one, it was better to give them their space and instead keep talking from a safer, less threatening distance while still keeping up a litany of speech. Usually this woke them up after a while, especially if the speech was something personal to them or something particularly soothing. And since John lived with Sherlock, John could feel relief at the fact that thinking of things to say would be much less difficult for his flatmate than it was for other patients.

Sitting with his legs crossed at the least threatening distance he could maintain, while still being close enough to stop anything bad happening, John kept his voice steady and low as he began to talk.

"Sherlock?" he started, hoping that the name cut through the detective's nightmare as well as he hoped it would. Sherlock didn't react and John grunted in worry as he began to talk again, keeping a close eye on Sherlock's twitching body. He seemed to be trying to get away from something, or someone but couldn't and the dream seemed to be showing no signs of letting up. Johnwondered if Sherlock's increasingly high fever had anything to do with it. Clearing his throat a little, John shuffled a little to ease the weight from his leg as it was beginning to hurt from being in such a position. He glanced over to the table, sighing as he tried to clear his thoughts and saw Sherlock's laptop on top of a stack of books. He imagined Sherlock had been updating his website before he got ill and strangely, something about it made John smile.

Clearing his throat, he began to talk again.

"You're really good at that kind of stuff you know" John said, smiling, knowing that Sherlock wouldn't answer him but still deciding on a relatively rhetorical question. In a way he was glad Sherlock was asleep enough not to hear it, John was far too worried about making Sherlock's head any bigger if he was awake. "The deducting I mean." John continued, "I know it's your job and everything, but it really is…quite extraordinary you know Sherlock". Sherlock still didn't stir and John carried on as Sherlock gave a whine of something that almost sounded like "Stop" to whatever thing he was facing in his dream. John could barely resist the urge to put his arms around the scrawny figure and hold him as tight as he could until he chased whatever demons they were away but instead had to carry on his flat toned talking.

"You know I hate it when you don't tell me you're ill Sherlock," John said, sighing. He hated seeing Sherlock like this, never mind when the young detective didn't tell him about it. "I worry about you. You need to take better care of yourself Sherlock. I thought… God, I don't know what I thought when I saw you lying there the other night. I thought something terrible had happened!" He swallowed a little and had to reign in his voice again to a steady, quieter tone as he realised belatedly that he had raised it.

"I was a mess Sherlock, honestly" John gave a chuckle, "You'd have been ashamed of me I think, I was a bit like a headless chicken." He laughed softly. "I'm so glad you're not awake" he chuckled, "I was scared, even though I'm a doctor. Even though I've seen Afghanistan and all the soldiers and everything… but when I saw you collapse I… I thought…" He stopped and realised that he couldn't think of exactly _what _he had felt, never mind why he had felt it. All he knew was that he had felt something in the pit of his stomach, something that felt like his insides were being pulled out for every second that Sherlock had laid on the cold London cobbles in that Godforsaken alley. All he knew was that if it had been one second longer, John only knew that he would probably have gone insane.

Somehow, even though Sherlock was still asleep (however his thrashing had considerably decreased since John had begun talking and now seemed to only twitch mildly every once in a while, something almost close to normal for the erratic detective), John felt as if talking right now was still stopping him from going insane. Just _telling _someone about it, even if he was just saying it to thin air, it felt as if suddenly, things were going to be okay for once. Every time he saw the detective's sporadic breathing, John felt his heart skip a beat with worry and he resisted the urge to do nothing but mother the man (despite the knowledge that he had been doing exactly so for the whole day) and John couldn't stand being so worried and not _telling _anyone about it anymore. He hadn't said this much about feelings since he was seven. He sighed and hoped to save himself embarrassment in case Sherlock woke up by keeping a close eye on the detective while he talked.

"I thought you might have been hurt, even though I'd checked everything. I checked your pulse and your breathing and they were fine, but I just couldn't stop thinking about what I'd do if it wasn't fine. I-I can't think of _not _having you as a flatmate… as a _friend_ anymore. I mean, I complain, but it's just…kind of weird I guess. I can't think about doing anything without you anymore" John said. Sherlock's breathing was calmer now and John wondered what the nightmare had been about. But at least it was over now at least.

"And that's why you can't keep on doing things like this" John scolded, "You need to take better care of yourself! What am I supposed to do if you don't? And that means eating, drinking and sleeping more than once a month and not trying to get yourself shot by criminals all the time! And you need to tell me when you're ill! And if not me, then Mycroft! I know he can be a bit unorthodox sometimes, but he does try to help Sherlock, he really does"

Normally John wouldn't defend the older Holmes brother (and he wouldn't berate a sleeping Sherlock), but after his help today, John knew that it was probably for the best. Sherlock needed a big brother more than he thought and whether or not it felt as if sometimes he was sharing the job with Mycroft, he knew for certain that the two brothers had probably been through some hard times together and whether or not Sherlock would like to admit or not, his big brother was family. John knew from experience that whether you wanted to or not, family was family and it was always too hard not to care than you'd hope, especially when they were really just trying to help. And if today was anything to go by, Mycroft really was trying to help, and, John had to admit, he was more helpful than Sherlock made out.

John gave a laugh. "Then again, you probably won't even know I said all of this when you wake up. I always did want to tell you; even if you don't know I've said it… it makes me feel better. And… I think you should know, if I ever actually decide to tell you while you're awake."

He chuckled again, "You should know what other people think of you. And I mean actual people, not idiots like Anderson or Sally or whatever, I mean other people. Mycroft really wants to make sure you're doing okay and he wants to help you and Lestraude told me that you were a great man on our first case. And he thinks you'll be a good one Sherlock, no matter what you say about there being no heroes. I mean, you're pretty much my hero aren't you? It's pretty much the definition, you save lives. Mine in particular actually. God, I hope you're not awake." He could feel himself blush mildly Now that he had started talking he couldn't stop, especially since now Sherlock's breathing was getting so close to normality now. "You're more amazing than you think Sherlock. Even though you're always saying it about yourself, I've never seen you believe it. Not once. It's like you say it so people never see anything else, like you're scared of something. It's like you need someone to tell you it, but you really shouldn't need to. You're brilliant as you are. Even though you're messy, annoying, arrogant, reckless and ridiculously detached sometimes. You're brilliant".

John found that he hadn't even been looking at Sherlock for the past couple of sentences, but had instead taken to looking at his hands as they rested on his lap, studying them as if there was something interesting on them. Finally, he looked up at Sherlock and grinned.

"I swear if you were listening to that, I'd die" he laughed. He saw through the semi darkness that Sherlock's breathing had slowed incredibly and he looked to be deep asleep. He was just about to get up, when he Sherlock opened one eye.

"I wouldn't want that John" Sherlock said and John nearly had a heart attack from fright, "Not after all that stuff you said. Who'd be there to boost my ego?"

John felt as if he'd die of embarrassment._ Please ground, _he thought silently, _do me a favour? Swallow me. _

"You really did help John, it was very soothing. I woke up when you started telling me about when I collapsed" Sherlock said nonchalantly.

"Sherlock!" John cried, "Why didn't you tell me? Or at least have opened your eyes? Jeez Sherlock! You should have told me!" Sherlock's face softened all of a sudden and he suddenly looked very tired.

"I didn't want you to stop talking" Sherlock said. John felt something mute inside him and he looked softly at Sherlock. Sherlock gave a shrug and John felt his own features fall at the little gesture.

"You have a nice voice" Sherlock observed, "It's very relaxing. And… and I must say, I was very flattered by what you said". John raised an eyebrow. Normally any other person would have felt shunted by the phrase, but the look on Sherlock's hope filled face told John more than anything Sherlock could have expressed in a million words, and John knew how good Sherlock's vocabulary was.  
When he looked carefully through the darkness, he swore he had seen the glimmer of tears in Sherlock's eyes but couldn't quite tell in the dying light and wondered if his eyes were playing tricks on him. But Sherlock's almost hopeful, pleading looking eyes told John everything he needed to know. He'd hit somewhere close to Sherlock's heart with what he'd said and for a moment they met eyes and there was a second when everything seemed to click into place. Then the moment passed and Sherlock sat up quickly from his laying down position.

He sat silently for a moment staring at the darkening wall opposite him and then looked at John, his eyes looking tired and he looked deathly pale in the half-light. John looked closely at his friend and noticed with a jolt that he was shaking. His hands were trembling violently and his eyes, John noticed, worry clouding him for a moment, weren't really focusing on him. John noticed the still fever ridden sweat dampening Sherlock's hair and swallowed down the urge to go fetch his med kit.

"You were having a nightmare" John said after consideration. For the time he'd known the consultant, he'd suffered more war nightmares than he cared to admit. He knew Sherlock knew he had them, but he never judged him for them. In fact, he rarely ever mentioned them, however the mornings after; Sherlock always seemed to make sure that he did everything he could for John, a rare thing for his eccentric flatmate to do at the best of times. In John's opinion, being there for Sherlock when he woke up from a nightmare meant he should be there to talk to him about it, although he didn't think that Sherlock would see it quite that way.

Sherlock didn't say anything but instead carried on staring at John, is eyes managing to focus a little. John felt his heart clench as Sherlock's shaking didn't stop and before he could stop himself, he had crossed the space and sat down on the sofa next to Sherlock. There was a moment of awkward silence before John finally plucked up the nerve to mention it.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he said. He already knew the answer, but there was no harm in trying.

"Not really no" Sherlock replied and John heard the defensive, almost icy tone in his voice. John nodded but scooted closer and tentatively put his hand onto Sherlock's in an attempt to try and stop the shaking, yet Sherlock gave a little yelp and jumped away as if he'd been scolded. John gave an apologetic smile and raised his hands to where Sherlock could see them.

"Sorry, I'm sorry!" he said. Sherlock looked embarrassed for a moment and looked away before then looking down guiltily. John felt a twit in his stomach. Sherlock had no reason to be guilty, John thought defensively. He didn't move away but John decided that physical contact probably wasn't the best thing right now, especially since it was Sherlock and not John's ordinary types of patient.

There was another awkward silence, longer than the first and John was about to ask Sherlock if he was okay to sleep again when he was interrupted.

"She never did like me" Sherlock said all of a sudden. John nearly jumped when the detective's voice sliced through the now dark silence, breaking his thoughts.

"What? Who didn't?" John said, frowning. Sherlock looked even paler now and John was worried that he might throw up as his eyes looked tired and stark against the clammy white skin of the rest of his face.

"Mother" Sherlock said simply. It almost seemed as if Sherlock was more talking to himself than anything. John looked inquisitively at Sherlock. He didn't want to pressure him into saying anything but he also knew that talking about it would be a lot better for Sherlock in terms of dealing with it, especially when he was this ill so in the end he decided to let Sherlock continue on his own.

John waited and wasn't sure after a while if Sherlock would say anything again, but eventually he seemed to try harder at his attempts to not meet John's eyes and he carried on.

"My…my mum never liked me. She hated me. M-Mycroft said that she didn't, but I knew, even at that age" he paused, "It's no big deal". John's mouth dropped open and he stared at him. What did he mean "no big deal"? Of course it was a big deal! It was his mother, it was his family, how was it not a big deal? And John was pretty sure that Sherlock wouldn't have brought it up if it wasn't to do with his nightmare. Sherlock looked almost amused at John's shocked face but the little chuckle that escaped him left him in a coughing fit. John rubbed his back soothingly and he thanked God that Sherlock didn't jump away again.

"Was that what the nightmare was about?" John finally asked, curiosity getting the better of him at last. Sherlock looked at him and John knew instantly. He could see the forlorn disparity in Sherlock's defeated expression. John thought that a piece of himself had just been taken away too when he saw the dull, lifeless look in Sherlock's usually sparky eyes. It didn't belong there. Sherlock's eyes sparkled like the stars; they didn't look like that, like…like there was nothing in the world that he believed anymore. That there was nothing _to_ believe in anymore. That wasn't Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock didn't say anything for a moment but then he looked away and he nodded slowly. John felt as if he'd been dropped from a height.

"I… She was never very nice. Especially after father left, but then, he wasn't great either" Sherlock said in an almost casual manner. John was astounded how Sherlock's demeanour had suddenly changed. Suddenly it was as if the façade was up again, as if now he wanted no one else to see how he felt, like he was blocking them out. John knew that Sherlock was hiding something and he was most certainly smothering away his feelings from even John, but what exactly he felt John wasn't sure. All he knew was that if he didn't talk to Sherlock about it now, the moment would pass and John knew from experience that holding stuff like this up inside was dangerous. For the person themselves _and _other people.

"Your dad left?" John asked, cringing as Sherlock seemed to flinch involuntarily at the mention of his dad. He nodded.

"Then it was me and Mycroft… and mother" Sherlock summarised, almost to himself more than anything, "Mother…mother blamed me, because- Because she was… It was my fault". John frowned, unable to follow the string of words.

"What was?" he asked gently. Sherlock shrugged.

"I-I made her sick" he said.

John clenched his fists. He watched Sherlock look down in shame and felt rage almost consume him. How could anyone even say that? To make him think even now that he wasn't worth it, to make him feel like _this _even so many years later? It made him sick to think about it.

"She said that to you did she?" John said, his voice barely over a snarl. Sherlock nodded and his eyes clouded up in bitter shame, sparking John's fury once again. He barely swallowed it down before he spoke again.

"And you believed her?" he asked. Sherlock looked up at him and John could barely believe what the lost, disbelieving eyes told him. John gave a sarcastic, humourless chuckle and shook his head. The world's greatest detective and yet he believed the most ridiculous thing John had ever heard. Typical Sherlock, he thought. He turned and looked intently at Sherlock who had suddenly found something very interesting to look at on the floor. No doubt deducing where John had been for the last three months from the scuffs on the floor or something. John gave a cheerless smile.

"Sherlock, listen to me" he said, trying to catch Sherlock's eye, unsuccessfully he thought dully, "You are unbelievable at the best of times, but this is the worst. This one probably takes the lead for the most stupid thing you've ever done, and that includes nearly taking that damn pill".

It was Sherlock's turn to return the small smile. John had never referred to the dreaded capsule as anything over than "that damn pill" since the incident and it never failed to make Sherlock smile. The familiar phrase gave Sherlock a small boost of confident and he tried to meet John's eye as levelly as possible.

"And what is it that you find so idiotic John?" Sherlock asked as coolly as he could manage even though he not only felt himself burning up dreadfully with the blasted fever but there was also a strange feeling of anxiety gnawing at the pit of his stomach that made him feel sick.

"That you believed her for all this time! That the world's only consulting detective didn't stop to question the most blatant lie he'd ever been told!" John said, trying hard to keep his voice as level as his flatmates. Now was a time when he was supposed to be strong for his eccentric flatmate, not the other way around. He was barely able to contain his rage at what the detective had told him and he found himself having to take deep breaths to control himself. He couldn't believe someone would have the nerve to say such a thing to anyone, never mind their own son!

Sherlock gave a little chuckle. "You really do have quite the temper sometimes" Sherlock smiled but John noticed the smile didn't really reach his eyes. "You are quite the mother hen sometimes John" Sherlock said. John sighed and nodded sheepishly in agreement.

"I may be a little," John said, "But its justified Sherlock. She had no right to say that, never mind what else she told you!" John hadn't wanted to voice his suspicions but he was pretty sure there was more to the subject than met the eye and his feelings were confirmed when Sherlock looked away for a split second. John leaned forwards and made sure he met Sherlock's averted eyes.

"Listen to me Sherlock," John said, his voice low with urgency, "I don't care what she said, you are _fantastic_ Sherlock. You solve cases no one else can, you help the police, you know so much stuff just from a glance at someone!" He smiled encouragingly at Sherlock and was proud to see the small spark of belief and usual defiance and confidence strike up like a lit match in Sherlock's bright blue eyes.

"And you're nothing like what she says, or what they say at the police station. They don't know you, not like I do, or like Mycroft does or even Mrs Hudson does or Lestraude! Mycroft wants to help all the time because he knows that you're a good person, not just a good detective or consultant or whatever, he knows that you're a good man, like I know that you are. Mrs Hudson loves you like a son because you helped her, because you help so many people all the time!" John noticed Sherlock frown at that, as if he was about to protest. _Oh no you don't_, John thought, _you're going to listen to this. _

"Whether it's just for the puzzles or not, Sherlock you do help people. You could have become a criminal or have done nothing at all but you _didn't. _You became a detective. You _chose _to do good and do you ever stop to think how much that means to people? How many people you've saved or helped or have got justice for? How much impact you've made to people, just by being here?"

Sherlock looked astounded at that and he seemed, for one amazing moment, speechless.

"And how much it means to me?" John said, "I don't care what she said to you Sherlock when you were small, but she didn't count on who you are today, who you still were then. She didn't see that. She didn't think you'd grow up to do good like you do". Sherlock shook his head.  
"I don't do good John. There are no heroes John, I have said it before" he said, his voice as detached as ever. John contained a sigh of frustration.

"Then what you call this?" John said, pointing to his own leg. Sherlock frowned and then laughed out loud.

"A leg" he said. John gave a sheepish grin and made a face. Typical Sherlock to state the obvious when you don't want him to, John thought.

"Well yeah, but look," he said, waving his free hand, "No cane. Why? Because you were the only one who could possibly help me get rid of it, to take the time to help me. To move in with me, whether you needed a flatmate too or not is irrelevant, even though we'd only just met. To take me along on your insane cases and whatever else. Why? Because you were doing good Sherlock".

Sherlock opened his mouth and then closed it again. He repeated the motion a few times before finally giving up. John was almost shocked speechless himself that Sherlock had nothing to say, while also being quietly smug that his logic had appeared to put some confidence into his flatmate.

"You…you really mean that?" Sherlock said and hearing the small, very un-Sherlock like voice, John could almost imagine the little frizzy haired boy named Sherlock Holmes asking questions, messing with stuff inquisitively, investigating like he still did today. Not shying away from the things that haunted him.

John nodded and he saw all the tension leave his friend's body as his shoulders sagged and he realised with a glance at the watch Harry gave him that Sherlock needed to get some rest. The detective looked exhausted and there was deeply set bags under his eyes, etching in the nights of sleeplessness of his face like a record of just how little his flatmate did sleep. John was beginning to wonder if his nightmares had anything to do with that. Sherlock gave him a small smile and John only just caught the tiny, almost inaudible whisper that drew itself from the exhausted consultant.

"I never thought…"

John felt his own shoulders drop, finishing off the line himself in his head, not showing Sherlock that he'd heard, Sherlock felt vulnerable enough as it was. _I never thought I'd hear someone say that. _

"Come on then," John said, resuming his normal cheery demeanour that he sometimes adopted, "You need sleep if you're going to get rid of that flu or it'll get worse". Sherlock looked up sharply at that and John swore he saw something akin to terror in his eyes. _Of course, _he thought, _why would he want to go back to sleep? _Sleep was where the nightmares were. He sighed and pondered how he'd manage to get the detective off to sleep. He knew what his mum would have done, but he wasn't sure if it'd be appreciated by Sherlock. But then again, he had very little choice really and there was no way he was touching another set of sleeping pills around Sherlock ever again.

He lay back against the sofa and made sure he was comfortable first and then looked at Sherlock who was assessing the room carefully in an attempt to deflect any of John's ploys to help him fall asleep.

"Lay down" John said. Sherlock looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

"Come on!" John said and Sherlock's eyebrow seemed only to rise higher.

"Not a chance" Sherlock said blandly. His eyes still retained some of the original shock but they were swimming with more emotions than John could count as he looked at them. _At least his hands have stopped shaking, _John thought, satisfied.

"Come on, scoot over" John said and Sherlock shook his head.

"I don't want to go to sleep" he said simply and John was reminded again of a child.

"You need to get better Sherlock or you can't take any more cases" John said. It was a mix of blackmail and bribery and John knew it, but he couldn't help but remember when Lestraude had commented on dealing with Sherlock like a child right back on their first case. Sherlock grumbled but eventually lay down. John hadn't really expected Sherlock to do what he did, Sherlock was usually very strict about physical contact, so he jumped when Sherlock scooted over whilst laying down and put his head onto John's lap.

Noticing his jump, Sherlock moved back as if stung and looked up at John, concerned that somehow he had done something wrong. John pretended not to notice and waited nonchalantly until Sherlock replace his head on his lap. Sherlock seemed drowsy enough once he was laid down and John smiled softly, running a soothing hand continuously through Sherlock's untameable hair as he muttered quietly to the detective about irrelevant things like needing milk and the latest cases to keep the younger man's mind from wandering into other, more sinister thoughts. Only a few minutes later, Sherlock was breathing softly and John let out the breath he had been holding ever since Sherlock had drifted off in his lap. Judging by the looks of things, Sherlock probably wouldn't be disturbed by bad dreams again tonight, but just to be sure, John resolved to stay awake just in case.

Twenty minutes later, both men were asleep on the sofa, John's protective hand still resting on Sherlock's shoulder.

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_**A/N: **__Next chapter, Mycroft is making another appearance and this time it's for a lot longer! Quick Sherlock, take respite with John while you can, big brother is arriving! _

_Anyway, this chapter certainly struck something of a chord with me, as I thought it would, so I hope it touched somewhere for other people as well :) _

_The next chapter won't take as long as this one did (I hope!) As I said, I had some trouble thinking of how exactly to write this one but next chapter shouldn't be like that (I think)_


	6. Meetings with Mycroft

_Kept to my deadline this week chaps! Huzzah! Still a lot of chitter chatter in this chapter but also lots of Mycroft, huzzah! Anyway, I've finally got pretty much everything for this fanfic (except the actual ending) all plotted out now after a 2-lesson long brainstorm with my Watson in our maths class over stuff I could write :D Good job that my Watson is good at maths or revision lessons could have gone worse. God bless our Watsons, everyone :D Anyway, so that should mean that I should be getting one out a week since I've got it all mapped out (hopefully: subject to change) So yeah, celebrations are in order! (Changes banners to Gryfindor colours and rows of wizards throw their hats into the air... God I'm weird). And thanks to my friend Uo-chan for inspiring my nightmare chapter ending with your nightmare info (even thought you don't read fanfic *Horror!* Lols)  
And finally, thanks again to everyone who reviewed, favourited and alerted, it is the greatest feeling in the world to wake up/come home to and know you've got someone reading your fic, so thank you so so much yet again you simply fantastic people! _

_Oh, yeah:** Disclaimer**__**:** Attempted at kidnapping John this time (oh I have no shame :D) in an attempt to get to Sherlock. Didn't get far before Sherlock find out. I am currently in hospital with a broken arm, gunshot wound in my right shoulder and very Sherlock looking fisticuff marks. Darn it. I knew that stealing Sherlock's mother hen was a bad idea. No one _**ever** _touches his Boswell. _

_*Returns to drawing board only to find it covered in flying monkey poo. Damn those monkeys!* _

_

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_

John sat in the large black car, Anthea typing away an email on her mobile next to him. Well,, not Anthea, he thought, she was Jessica today. He had really just taken to calling her "Mycroft's assistant" or "Not-really-Anthea" but Jessica would do just fine as well he supposed. She hadn't spoken to him at all since he had got in the car and he was pretty sure that a date was out of the question whether he asked or not. So far, he didn't even know her name.

Sherlock was at the moment out looking for information on a new case, an apparent suicide that wasn't. His temperature had gone down after the three days of concentrated care from John and although he still had a rather nasty cough, John had agreed to allow him to go out on cases that required minimal exercise, at least until he was fully back to normal again. This was mostly because since Sherlock had started feeling better at around day two and a half, he had pestered John none stop about going out and, much to John's dismay; he had been forced to acquiesce.

As soon as Sherlock had left the flat however, leaving John alone to get on with hospital paperwork that he owed until he returned, things had been surprisingly lonely. John had almost missed Sherlock's constant whining on how illnesses were vile and should be banned and he had never thought that he would have missed _that. _So after only an hour and a half of the silent, far-too-still flat, John had finally gave a loud noise of frustration and went to the place he had been anxious to go to since Sherlock's nightmare. And that, surprisingly, was the last place he ever thought he'd want to be. Taking the phone number off of the basket of baked goods that Sherlock's older brother had sent, he set off in search of the older Holmes.

The phone number had led him to not-really-Anthea's mobile, no doubt her spare, or her second spare or something ridiculous like that, who had told him that she was coming in a car to pick him up. John didn't bother asking her how he knew which car would be hers; he was pretty sure that he would be able to recognize it. Sure enough, when the large black BMW car pulled up on the car a few metres away, John sighed and got in. Typical Mycroft didn't even bother to try and disguise the spooky black car look. Shaking his head, he sat down next to not-really-Anthea in the leather seats and pulled over his seatbelt.

"Should I bother asking where Mycroft is meeting us?" he asked. Not-really-Anthea shook her head.

"Nope" she said, eyes glued to her blackberry.

"New name today?" John asked.

"Um… Jessica"

"Jessica?"  
"Yeah"

After that the conversation had been pretty much over and apart from the clicking of the blackberry next to him, there was silence the whole way. Really awkward silence, John mused as the car began to slow. Although the windows were, as always with Mycroft, John assumed that they had arrived as the tapping of the blackberry next to him had only increased in rapidity. _Nice deduction, _the Sherlock voice said in his head. He smiled at that and he felt the car glide to an easy stop.

As always he felt a jolt of nerves as his car door opened a few moments and a man in a black suit urged him out of the car. As always when he saw Mycroft Holmes, he felt a jolt of… well… fear he guessed. Not quite intimidation, but worry most certainly. There was always a moment, just for a minute or so, when John doubted the older Holmes brother. Black cars, men in suits and silent assistants usually did that to him. _The most dangerous man you'll ever meet, _the Sherlock voice said. _And also not only a member of the British government but someone who's helped us countless times already on cases and kept a check on your crazy flat mate, _John thought to himself, quailing the protesting Sherlock voice in his head. _And not only that, _John thought more softly, _but a man who had gone so far as to intimidate anyone close to his brother to ensure he could trust him and had made himself "the enemy" to appease Sherlock.  
_  
John felt the stab of fear dissipate as he got out of the car and immediately recognized the place. Mycroft never did business at home, John assumed, hence the reason why John was now standing in a strangely familiar warehouse. The first one in which he had met the older Holmes brother, John realized.

John saw Mycroft standing where he had stood before and John had a weird feeling of déjà vu. Straightening up, he walked over.

"Hello again John" Mycroft drawled as John walked over.

"Mycroft" John said, nodding as he approached the man. There was a seat positioned across from where Mycroft was standing as it had been the first time John had been here. John wondered if it had been moved since that time.

"Take a seat John" Mycroft said with a smile. John raised an eyebrow but this time did as he was told. Mycroft gave him a smile and leaned on his umbrella.

"So, I assume you called to meet me about my brother. I was hoping for an update sooner, however I suppose you were busy with looking after him. He can be quite a handful" Mycroft said suavely.

"Oh, er, yeah I guess," John admitted.

"And how is he now?" Mycroft asked, "I assume he's already taken a case?" John barely registered surprise at the deduction before he pushed it down. From what John had seen, Mycroft was as good, in fact, maybe even better, at deduction as his younger brother and much like he had with Sherlock, John had stopped trying to find out how Mycroft knew about his, and often Sherlock's, home life.

"He's fine Mycroft. I told him to take it easy"

"Ah but of course he won't" Mycroft smiled, "He never has been one to sit still". John could believe that. He always imagined Sherlock as one of those kids that never sat still when they were told.

He watched as Mycroft swung his umbrella and walked to get a chair from near a stack of boxes to John's right.

"That isn't all that you came to talk about however is it Dr. Watson? Otherwise you would have left me a message and that would have been the end of the matter. Coming all the way out to see me means you have something else to ask me. Am I correct?" Mycroft observed coolly. John rolled his eyes. Typical Mycroft, he didn't exactly wait to get to the crux of the matter. But then again, John thought, neither did Sherlock.

"Actually there is" John said. Mycroft pulled up the chair and sat opposite him. "Sherlock's had these nightmares, it was only really bad on the first night he was sick, but I was concerned as to why he um…"

"Was having them in the first place?" Mycroft finished for him. John nodded.

"They seem unusual, he can barely wake himself from them without someone else there to help him and they last for more time than I should" John said. It was true that he was worried about all that, especially since, medically, nightmares weren't exactly healthy, but his real question hung unspoken in the air.

"Ah yes," Mycroft said, "The infamous reason as to why Sherlock never got a flat share to begin with". John frowned. It had occurred to John before to wonder about where Sherlock had lived before they both lived at 221B, however it had never occurred to him that Sherlock would have been living alone, which was strange really as John knew first-hand how Sherlock liked to avoid people like the black death. But for some reason, John had always simply assumed that Sherlock had lived with somebody.

Maybe it was just John's naivety that had led him to the conclusion but John had always imagined that people would have been interested in Sherlock, even he wasn't in them. John certainly was anyway, ever since he had met Sherlock he had been trying to get to know as much about him as possible. It made John's heart sink with sadness as he realized that he was Sherlock's first flat mate. How lonely must he have been?

Mycroft seemed to see john's expression, half surprise, half sadness. The older Holmes brother gave a sad smile. "Sherlock never did want a flat mate. He never wanted anyone around him, even at a small age. He always preferred his own company" he stated, watching John's face with a calm, calculating stare. He was making sure to observe every detail of John's expression, cataloguing every tiny change in man's expression. John knew immediately what he was doing. _Trust issues _he remembered Mycroft saying to him the first time they had met. Something about a pot, black and kettle sprung to John's mind. Ever since they had met, Mycroft had watched John's every movement, calculating everything about him, making sure that he could trust him with his brother's wellbeing. With his brother's trust really, John thought.

"So he never wanted a flat mate because he didn't want them to see one of his nightmares?" John asked. It seemed a strange reason. Sherlock could have covered over nightmares as anything, to avoid all contact with people just because of that seemed a dramatic. But then, John was pretty sure that dramatic was Sherlock's middle name, and he wouldn't have been surprised if the name hadn't been passed down from Mycroft.

Mycroft shifted uneasily, a sight that John wasn't used to at all. "You must promise me Dr. Watson that what I tell you next will never reach Sherlock" Mycroft said, his voice low and meaningful. John felt himself involuntarily mimicking Mycroft's earlier nervous gesture. John already had enough to feel guilty about, never mind adding more things into the mix. He still felt guilty about the first day he had looked after Sherlock, about meeting Mycroft without telling him, about letting him out on a case on his own even though John was thoroughly convinced it wasn't going to end well. Keeping yet another secret from Sherlock wasn't exactly on John's to-do list but the look Mycroft gave him was enough to subdue even the bravest of notions and John gave a defeated nod.

"Good." Mycroft said, "I trust you to keep your word Dr. Watson". John raised an eyebrow at Mycroft's obvious wariness. There was a pause before Mycroft spoke again.

"Sherlock is very clever as you already know Dr. Watson; he could cover up a nightmare. Covering up what the nightmare _means _to him is a lot more difficult" Mycroft finally said. John frowned.

"I'm sorry, what? What do you mean, _means _to him?" John said, confused. Mycroft shifted again.

"Did my brother tell you who the nightmare was about Dr. Watson?" Mycroft said. John frowned and nodded slowly.

"Yeah. He, um, said it was about… his mother" John said carefully. He wasn't sure how touchy a subject it was amongst the Holmes' so he tried to say it as prudently as he could manage. Mycroft nodded.

"Yes. And did he tell you _why _his mother scared him so much?" Mycroft asked. John shook his head.

"No, just that she blamed him for something… he said…he said that he had 'made her sick' or something" John said.

Mycroft seemed surprised at that and took his time in saying anything else. He seemed to consider a moment before saying anything else, inspecting the handle of his umbrella as if it was broken and he was considering how to mend it. John actually jumped when Mycroft spoke again.

"He hasn't said that much to anyone about it in a very long time" Mycroft said. John couldn't quite place the other man's tone of voice. It was stating a fact and it sounded bland and toneless to anyone else, but John, having been living with Sherlock, the so-called emotional equivalent of a computer, he had picked up on detecting the emotion in even the most stoic of phrases. He realized with a frown that the sentence had been almost…sad. Regretful even.

He swallowed and asked a question he hadn't thought he'd have dared to ask.

"What exactly did scare Sherlock so much?" John asked, "He… he said he was sorry…for getting sick I mean". Mycroft looked up at John as if he had just kicked him in the chest, his face a mix of shock and hurt at the implication of the words. Mycroft rubbed his eyes and let out a long breath, suddenly looking very tired.

"I have not always been as influential as you may think Dr. Watson" Mycroft said unexpectedly, "In fact, at some points in the past of both me and my brother, I have not always been adequate enough to protect him as I try to do today. I'm afraid that our mother was not always exactly a good memory in Sherlock's mind. He…he was very young when she took a sever dislike to him". John nodded slowly, not able to process. How could she? A severe dislike? He was her son for Christ's sake, John thought, fuming, his blood practically boiling inside him as he clenched his fist. Mycroft on the other hand seemed almost despondent. John caught a glimmer of remorse in his eyes and he was surprised to feel sympathy for him.

"Sherlock has always been the one to receive the brunt of mother's displeasure; admittedly I am ashamed to say I haven't always had the power to protect him. Not even when he was little, not even from… from our mother. In fact sometimes, I do tend to think I make it worse" Mycroft admitted. He looked tired and vulnerable for a moment and John jumped as Mycroft seemed to snap back into place, the façade of cool replacing itself as John sometimes saw happen with Sherlock. The similarities between them, although John never pointed it out to Sherlock for fear of losing a limb in Sherlock's next little 'experiments', were quite startling.

"I'm very sorry Dr. Watson, but I think I have said enough already. Sherlock would hate me if I were to say much else" Mycroft said, his voice a tone of business once again. He looked past John and the ex-soldier turned to see not-really-Anthea (_Jessica, Jessica, _John scolded himself mentally) stood behind him, waving her Blackberry.

Mycroft nodded. "I really am terribly sorry Dr. Watson; I have a meeting with the American ambassador in an hour and I really must be going soon. I apologize for having to leave so early".

"'S fine" John said, still looking at Not-really-Anthea (_Jessica, Jessica, _John practically shouted in his head).

"And I thank you also" Mycroft said. John frowned.

"What? Why?" Mycroft seemed to chortle at that.

"For looking after my brother, he can be quite a pain at times" Mycroft said. John laughed and nodded.  
"Yeah you can say that again. Thank you too by the way, for your text. I got him to eat the tomato soup in the end." John said, remembering the text Mycroft had sent him.

In fact he had received a text every day since Sherlock had fallen ill informing him of his flat mate's likes and dislikes, usually at very appropriate moments. Such as the fact that the older brother had probably saved Sherlock's life by informing John that he had already taken pain pills by himself when John had tried to give him some more, which Sherlock looked like he was going to take regardless of the fact it would probably have caused a seizure. John had begun to suspect that Mycroft had cameras in the flat or something.

"Indeed Dr. Watson" Mycroft agreed, "I was happy to be able to help. He's so resentful". John caught the slight pang of regret in the man's voice and softened his features.

"He'll come round one day" John smiled, "He really is a bit of a nightmare himself sometimes". Mycroft smiled and turned to walk away.

"And I must say Dr. Watson, I am sorry about your predicament" Mycroft called back as he walked away.

"What do you mean?"

"Sooner or later Sherlock is going to have to face up to the things that scare him. I'm sorry of the inconvenience it will cause to be there when he does" Mycroft said, stopping and turning slightly, "But I also must admit, I do hope you stay. I suspect my brother would be lost without his blogger" With that the older brother twirled his umbrella again and, turning, walked away, his assistant shortly in tow behind him. John remained sitting in his chair for a few moments and again wondered if Mycroft had cameras in the hallway, or if he really was more like his brother than he admitted.

Sighing, he stood up. _Eventful, _his brain summarized as he walked back towards his car. _But also something that is definitely _not _getting blogged about, _he smiled to himself. Getting into the car, he sat back in the leather seats and closed his eyes as the car set off for Baker Street.

John unlocked the door to their flat and jogged up the stairs. The lights were off as John expected and there was nobody home except from a black cat that was walking across the windowsill outside, fleeing as he turned the lights on. Sherlock, as John had half expected, wasn't in. _Probably still out on a case, _John smiled. Despite trying his best to keep him out of trouble, John was pretty sure Sherlock would be out somewhere in some strange predicament. He put his phone on the coffee table where he could see it, just in case. Running a hand through his hair he sat down heavily on the sofa and didn't even realize until a few moments later that he had actually lain down too. Meetings with Mycroft were more tiring than John had expected. He ran over the information in his head and felt his eyes droop, the missing sleep from looking after Sherlock for the past few days catching up on him.

Just before he drifted into sleep, a strange thought hit him and he remembered what Mycroft had said in the warehouse. _Sooner or later Sherlock is going to have to face up to the things that scare him, _he had said. John shrugged off the memory but it still lingered somewhere in the back of his head. He was going to have to be ready to do what he could when that day came.

Unfortunately, not even Mycroft could have guessed how soon that day would come.

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_Okay, so not exactly cliffhanger, but it's kinda half there, right? Maybe something smaller than a cliff. A diving board. Like a boardhanger. Not the same ring. But still. Anyway, hope to update soon and I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! Thank you for reading again all you amazing people! _


	7. A Favour

**_A/N _**_Apologies to anyone who was waiting for this, I admit I am a day/2 days late, but for once, the problem was not from me, but from my memory stick. I got a cruzer slidey thing memory stick and as expected it has actually broken into two parts (the data bit has split from the bit that plugs in) so I've had to attempt at fixing it in order to retrieve this chapter :O Anyway, things are hopefully actually getting started in this as sick!Sherlock is good fun, but after brainstorming with my Watson I have some more fun stuff planned for our Sherlock :) *Evil laughter!* Anyway, here it is, chapter 7, hope you like it!_

Also, to all those amazing reviewers, favouriters, and alerters out there making my days, thank you again and again and again! I send love and virtual cupcakes to anyone and everyone who has ever taken the time out to make my day by pressing one of those magic tick boxes :D You guys are awesome :)

**_Disclaimer: _**_I tried to get my flying monkeys to take diets so they'd be fit to steal Sherlock at one point. Instead they rebelled, took my memory stick and broke it in two… now I am having to fit them a new pool table and Sky TV that I don't even own. And yes Watson, if you ever read this, that was actually what happened to my memory stick. And all this… yet still no Sherlock. _

_*Cannot return to drawing board since mine was taken out in order to fit the new Plasma TV for the monkeys. I can't even get near it… I want my drawing board :( I need a plan to get that back too…*_

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John got the call two weeks later. Things had pretty much gone back to normal as far as Sherlock was concerned, however recently he seemed to be solving cases like they were the only thing on earth. Well, more than usual anyway, John thought as he sat in his armchair at home, Sherlock typing away busily on his laptop. No doubt looking for another case. He'd probably already texted or emailed Lestraude in search of one, for some reason he seemed to having trouble keeping still for more than a few minutes at a time recently. John hadn't even seen him meditate recently and for a while he had been worried that he might have started up smoking again, but luckily his will seemed to be holding out, despite the increasing death threats for cigarettes on his website. Apparently, cigarette addiction wasn't waning for Sherlock over time as it did for everyone else, but then, that was just Sherlock being awkward… _again. _

John had literally breathed a sigh of relief when he had tested Sherlock's temperature one day and it and come back normal, and he was even happier now that Sherlock was up and about again, despite his complaining when he found heads in the fridge. But "normal" wasn't the word he would have used to describe the past two weeks. In all honesty, John had done nothing but worry over his detective flatmate and had been listening out every night for even an inkling of a nightmare. If Sherlock knew he was staying up to listen though, he didn't show it. In fact, he had barely spoken to John in the past couple of days and John was beginning to feel fput out. Or at least have the notion that he had done something wrong.

He was about to talk to him about it in fact when there was a ping at Sherlock's laptop. Sherlock nonchalantly clicked the new email to open and read it intently. John looked on with only mild interest. There was probably a whole host of people it could be, but John was pretty sure if it was anyone important, Sherlock would let John know. It was probably Lestraude with a new case. There was silence for a while as Sherlock read the email and John jumped when Sherlock spoke up for what seemed like the first time in ages, something highly unusual for his normally erratic flatmate.

"Lestraude has a new case for me" Sherlock said flatly. John nodded, his first guess had been right.

"What's it about?" John said.

He had stopped trying to skirt around nicely about murders and such with Sherlock. Sherlock was one of the few people you could speak your mind to and not be judged for it, one of John's favourite things about his friend. After seeing all the death in Afghanistan, John was used to bloodshed and to Sherlock, new murders were his favourite games, cruel sounding or not. It was also one of the good reasons why their relationship worked. It was probably one of the few reasons that made sense when it came to why exactly they were friends. There was always something odd about why exactly the two opposites attracted to be honest. John couldn't ever think of other reasons. Not ones that made sense anyway. For some reason, despite all his flaws, words like "amazing" and "fantastic" still came to John's mind when he thought of his crazy flatmate, even though he could describe their friendship as nothing short of insane. But then again, he pondered; maybe _that _was why they worked so well together.

"Murder case. Poisoning" Sherlock said, "I'm thinking the landlord's son from the sound of it". John gaped. Sherlock had deduced a killer from one email from Lestraude. But then, what did John really expect? He closed his open mouth and pretended to look unimpressed, although it was failing miserably if Sherlock's smug face was anything to judge by.  
"Lestraude is expecting me in ten minutes" Sherlock said, "I'm getting a taxi". There was a moments silence again. John didn't know why Sherlock had been so awkward for the past two weeks, but moments like this had grown longer over the time period and John had been worried. Especially since the quiet periods had suspiciously started right after Sherlock's nightmare.

"Are you coming with me?" Sherlock finally said.

John looked surprised. He hadn't been on a case with Sherlock since the Jack Blaine case when Sherlock had collapsed, Sherlock had been going alone for ages, without even telling John sometimes. John just guessed that he needed the time to think.

"Um-yeah, sure, I'll get my coat" John said. He tried not to grin but was finding it difficult. He didn't like admitting it, but life definitely was a lot more fun on a case with Sherlock. In fact, life in generally usually was a lot more adventurous with Sherlock anyway.

John was just getting up when his phone suddenly began to ring beside him. Sighing, he picked it up, pressing the enter button before he put it to his ear. Sherlock peered over.

"Hello?" John said.

"Hello John, how are you and Sherlock doing?" Mycroft's voice drawled down the other end of the phone. John didn't bother to ask how Mycroft got his number.

"Yes, fine thank you Mycroft," John sighed, alerting Sherlock to Mycroft's presence on the other end of the phone. Sherlock looked suspicious at the mention of his brother's name and frowned. John had neither seen nor heard from Sherlock's brother since when he had arranged to meet him about Sherlock. Since then it seemed that Mycroft had lost all interest in his brother. Either that or he was too busy to take an interest.

"Good good, and Sherlock is no longer sick I take it?" Mycroft asked.

"No, he's fine" John replied suspiciously. Mycroft sometimes had a somewhat crafty air about him at times and the almost false sounding; astute voice drifting down the phone line gave John no consolation what-so-ever. John waved Sherlock's ever increasing, questioning gaze away.

"On a case I take it?" Mycroft said, sounding more and more suspicious by the moment.

"Maybe" John answered, deciding on a diplomatic answer, one that wouldn't get him in trouble with either Holmes brother while not giving too much away. However, Sherlock still scowled at his answer from across the room.

Mycroft didn't speak and there was silence for a long moment. So much so that John was about to ask if he was still there when he spoke up.

"No doubt he'll be starting one soon then, I can't wait any longer. He'll just have to keep himself occupied I imagine" Mycroft suddenly said. John thought he could hear not-really-Anthea's voice talking quietly to Mycroft about something on the other end of the line but he wasn't sure.

"What do you mean, _you _can't wait? What for?" John said, frowning. Again, there was a moment of silence and Mycroft seemed to mutter something quickly to his assistant.

"Mycroft? What for?" John asked again. Sherlock seemed to hear the confusion and the frustration beginning to creep into John's voice and turned in his chair to watch him with not only interest, but what seemed to be a tad bit of worry. John knew that Sherlock was absolutely convinced about his brother being a dangerous man; however he didn't think he believed that he would actually _be _dangerous towards anyone Sherlock knew. John would have said that Mycroft wouldn't have been dangerous towards anyone at all, however John had a pretty good idea of what might happen to anyone that ever hurt Sherlock, directly or otherwise, if Mycroft ever caught them. And he _would _catch them.

There seemed to be a change in demeanour at the Mycroft's end of the phone and he seemed to return back to business.

"I'm in need of a rather large favour from you John" Mycroft said. John nearly dropped the phone in surprise when he heard Mycroft's sudden change in disposition. He sounded almost _regretful. _

"I'm sorry to spring this on you of all people Dr Watson, but you must understand that I really have no one else who can do this as well as you can. And I really am very sorry about it" Mycroft continued. John felt a lump form in his throat as worry seized him. What was he talking about? And why was Mycroft sounding so… sorry about it? He sounded as if he had just shot someone, and John knew exactly what that sounded like, he'd been there, done that, cleaned the tee shirt for powder burns.

"What do you mean? What is it?" John asked. Sherlock was leaning forwards in his chair, so far that John was pretty sure he'd be falling off it soon. He had clasped his hands together in that oh-so-Sherlock way that he usually did and was gazing a hole into John's phone.

Mycroft seemed to debate again over his words.

"Dr Watson I would appreciate you not alerting Sherlock to this anymore, it may… upset him. At least until I have shown you what I need the favour for" Mycroft said tentatively.

ff"Wait…what? What do you mean? Mycroft-"

"Believe me Dr Watson, I am not proud of keeping Sherlock in the dark, but trust me when I say that you would best not discuss with Sherlock what I am about to disclose to you. I don't want him…upsetting" Mycroft said quietly. John sat, dumbstruck, frowning into his mobile.

"Now, if it would be possible, would you be able to meet us in your office back at the clinic as soon as possible John?" Mycroft asked. John shook himself out of his surprise and tried to ignore Sherlock's ever more intent staring, suspicion evident on his face. John sighed. If Mycroft was sure it was important, it probably was.

"Okay" he said, rubbing his forehead tiredly, "Be there as soon as I can"

"Thank you John" Mycroft said, "I'll see you then". The phone went dead.

John looked up and Sherlock was still watching him. They locked eyes for a moment and Sherlock seemed to be about to say something when John stood up.

"It was your brother" he said as he went to get his coat. He knew Sherlock already knew, he had alerted his flatmate himself while he was on the phone, but for some reason, John still felt obligated to say it. Sherlock leapt up, following him.

"What did he want? If he's asked you for a favour, say no, it's probably something government and official and he'll knight you before you know it" Sherlock said in a rush, in a voice that wasn't like Sherlock at all. It was a worried tone…an almost frantic tone. Something that wasn't like him. It wasn't like him at all. It was also all it took for John to soften. Sherlock's uncharacteristic, nervous look was all it took to make him crumble and he turned, rolling his eyes.

"He wants to see me" John said.

"What? Why?" Sherlock said sounding surprised.

"He didn't tell me" John admitted, "He wants me to meet him at the clinic, that's all".

Sherlock frowned. "What?"

"Meet him. At the clinic. You know, the place where I happen to _work_?" John said. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.

"Why would he say that?"

John almost laughed at the suspicion in his voice. He sounded as if he suspected him of murder. If he wasn't so serious then John _would _have laughed.

"Bloody hell Sherlock, it's just Mycroft, it's not like I've just been invited for tea by a serial killer for God's sake!" John cried. Sherlock didn't stop looking sceptical.

"Sherlock, if I knew what he wanted, I'd tell you, okay?" John sighed. No one speak for a moment.

"Are you still coming with me?" Sherlock asked, the childlike tone in his voice once again. It felt better when John heard it; he had almost missed it the past two weeks. It nearly broke John to deny him though, especially when _that _voice came out.

"Sherlock… I can't" John admitted, "He wants me there now". Sherlock looked disgruntled but shook it off.

"I'm going with you" Sherlock said. John frowned at that. If Sherlock came along with him then he was pretty sure whatever Mycroft wanted wouldn't be good for him. Not after what Mycroft had said on the phone.

John sighed. "Sherlock, you know you can't. You have a case anyway and-" He was cut off when Sherlock's phone rang. Sherlock snarled loudly in frustration, stalking over to the table to get it and answered it.

"Sherlock Holmes" he growled into the device and John listened as Sherlock muttered responses into the phone acidly. He hung up a moment later and John saw Sherlock literally sag when he realised he was all but defeated.

"Lestraude?" John asked. Sherlock nodded. He was needed on the case, _now. _Sherlock padded over and looked intently at John as if the entire world rested on John's shoulders.

"John, listen to me. Don't accept anything, keep your phone and tell me _everything _that happens when you get back here, understand? Lestraude wants me there immediately" Sherlock said forcefully. John rolled his eyes. _Oh the melodrama, _he thought, giving a grin.

"Yes Sherlock" John said, monotone.

Sherlock nodded and John watched him grab his ever-present coat. He was almost out the door when he turned to look at John again.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do John" he muttered and John smiled.

"No Sherlock" he said, smiling still.

"Good. See you soon, don't wait up!" Sherlock cried, bounding down the stairs, "And be sure to tell me everything!"

John stood, dazed in Sherlock's wake. Shaking his head, he grabbed his coat and leaving, taking a taxi in the other direction, heading towards the clinic. He was feeling oddly apprehensive about his appointment with Mycroft and he almost felt nervous as he pulled up to the hospital.

"You working today Dr Watson?" Jackie, the receptionist asked. John smiled kind-heartedly at her and shook his head.  
"No, no, just meeting someone. Has anyone asked for me?" he asked. Jackie shook her head.

"Has there been a man with a black suit and an umbrella been in here asking round?" John asked, hoping Mycroft's signature umbrella would be a give-away.

Jackie seemed to dawn on recognition and she nodded.

"Yeah, they said they were here to see a doctor so I sent them to a consulting room. Put them under 'Holmes' I think it was" she said, "He was admitting somebody else I think or getting a check-up or something". John frowned.

"Admitting someone?" he said. Jackie nodded.

"Yeah, you'd be better off asking them about it when you see them but they have some details apparently and they need to get looked at" she said. John didn't ask who "they" were and instead said a quick thank you before heading for the consulting room, past the line of waiting patients. A bad feeling growing in his stomach, he stopped a moment outside the consulting room and, taking a deep breath, he opened the door.

"No."

It was the first thing John said as he entered the room. "No way," he said, the sound coming out halfway between a shocked stammer and a growl, making for an odd gritted effect.

"Now, come now Dr Watson, there's no need for that" Mycroft said plainly, sounding bored as he sat on a chair by the consulting table, the woman John had seen coming in sitting on the table, staring holes into John's head.

_No, no, no _was the only thought John could think as he took in the sight of the woman. He didn't need to read the name on the files Mycroft's assistant, whose hospital name tag read "Jean" in fancy lettering, had handed him as she greeted his entry. This…this was Mrs Holmes. This… was Sherlock's mother.

She was different from what John had expected. Mrs Holmes was entirely dissimilar from her sons in almost every way and John would never have guessed that she was a Holmes if not for the certain air she carried around herself. There was definitely something crueller to her features than either of her sons possessed, however the dignified, Holmesianair was still there. John couldn't think of any other way to put it, it was just _there. _The certain aura that each Holmes had about them was unmistakeable no doubt and John didn't need to see the files to know who she was. He also didn't need to see her to know that the last thing he wanted to do was be in a room with Sherlock's tormenter for what was probably the whole of his childhood, never mind treat her. And John knew that it was her he was supposed to be treating, the one being admitted. Even from here he could see she was having difficulty breathing.

"Dr Watson I presume" Mrs Holmes said, her voice almost a purr and John was surprised at the deceptive sweetness in it.

John nodded but didn't speak, instead looked down at the files. Sure enough, MRS. ANGELA HOLMES was printed on the top and a host of symptoms, mostly respiratory, were printed underneath. His reading was interrupted by Mycroft's voice drifting over to him.

"John, this is my mother, Mrs Ang-"

"Angela Holmes" John finished. Mycroft nodded. John shook his head, supressing what he guessed was a nervous laugh.

"You want me to treat _her_?" he said, pretending not to acknowledge the woman's presence. All he knew, all he needed to know, was that she hurt Sherlock. The rest was irrelevant. He watched as Mycroft nodded slowly.

"Yes," he said simply. John continued to gape at him.

"I need someone close to home with access to my office," Mycroft elaborated, "I want to keep this off the books so private consulting within a non-private hospital if you understand me. If I were to put it on the hospital archives then no doubt Sherlock would find out…and you know how distressed he gets about mummy. But I do need someone close to me in order to give me the details"

John didn't look convinced.

"Get one of your people to do it" he snarled, the proposal coming out more forceful than he'd first thought.

"I would if I could John, mummy is….fragile because of her breathing difficulties, leaving home is…troublesome. You must understand if I could get someone else I would, however you are the only person who's close enough to Sherlock to do this John" Mycroft said. John frowned.

"What do you mean?" he asked suspiciously. Mycroft seemed to shift uncomfortably in his seat. Mrs Holmes sat like a statue, unmoving to the conversation around her. Mycroft seemed to consider his word choice carefully before speaking.

"Other doctors, especially my people, like to do things on record John. And no matter what they always slip up. I'm not sure if you know the extent of Sherlock's reach but he practically has an inbox specially designed to be sent in information from hospitals for at least a fifteen mile radius. Even I can't hack it… and I have tried. It's the same as his mobile network, no idea how he does it sometimes. But that's where half of the autopsy reports for his cases come from" Mycroft explained, stopping to mutter something about Sherlock treating the NHS database like a toy before continuing.

"And you, Dr Watson are the only person my brother would never research, never suspect. You are the only person he trusts enough to allow you to get by him, every once in a while at least" Mycroft explained.

John suddenly had a remembrance of the pill he had given Sherlock, how he had pretended not to know, how he had feigned ignorance to make it better…to let John get by him. He shook his head.

"No, no I'm not going to lie to him, not about this" John said, shaking his head. Giving the file back to Jean (_or Anthea, or Jessica, or whatever her name is, _John thought for a moment) and heading to leave. John's hand had just touched the handle of the door when Mycroft called after him.

"Didn't you think about what would happen if Sherlock was to find out that his mother was being treated in a hospital nearby? If I gave it to one of _my _people" Mycroft called. John turned around. Of course he had. Once the initial smog had cleared his mind that was all he _could_ think about. If he didn't do this, Sherlock would have more chance of finding out, John knew it. But _lying _to him… _Blatantly_ lying to him. It was unfathomable.

He watched Mycroft stand up and walk towards him.

"Dr Watson, sometimes we must do something we hate to protect something we want to protect, even if that thing hurts" he said and John saw the sharp eyes dull with sadness for a moment as his voice suddenly dropped to a whisper.

"Believe me," Mycroft muttered quietly, "I know what it feels like to lie to Sherlock… but I also know what happens when I don't". John stared for a long time at Mycroft.

"John, mother is very sick. And no matter what she did, no matter what she said, she is our mother. She is my mother and she is Sherlock's mother, and either way, if he likes her or if he hates her, do you not think of what it may do to him if she dies?" Mycroft asked.

Ashamed, John looked down. He had thought of that too. Love or hate, like or dislike, John knew what it was like to dislike a family member. Maybe not as strongly as Sherlock, but it was still a dislike. And even though he didn't like talking about it, he also knew that despite it all, they were related to him. They had the same blood, the same family. He knew that through everything, if they died, there would always be something missing, something hurting. John couldn't stand the thought of Sherlock, who despite appearances, was more fragile than he seemed, having someone taken from him. And especially not a parent, even a not very good one. Sherlock didn't need any more holes in his life. He looked at Mycroft and was surprised to have himself blink away a vision of Sherlock. The same look had crossed Sherlock's face when John had told him about Mycroft's phone call.

All at once, John knew that he was going to have to lie to his flatmate. To his best friend. Looking up at Mycroft again, he nodded slowly and saw the other man nod back, handing him a file. John's eyes roamed to the woman sat on the consulting table and almost took back his word as his blood boiled when he saw her smug looking smile gazing at him. He swallowed down a remark and looked at the file. CASEFILE was printed in large letters on the front. John frowned at it.

"What's this?" he asked.

"A case" Mycroft said. John raised an eyebrow at that.

"Obviously," he said, rolling his eyes, "What for?"

"For Sherlock of course" Mycroft said. John gave a questioning look, flipping open the file and scanning over the pages.

"He'll need a reason why I asked you here. Say I wanted to give you a case. That I knew that he wouldn't take it so I gave it to you instead. Tell him it was a waste of time. With any luck he'll never even look at it" Mycroft explained.

"Is it even a real case?" John said. Mycroft sniffed a little and shrugged.

"Minor" he said, "A missing document. Very basic, nothing too difficult really, but enough to give us a cover story I think"

John sighed and nodded. "Okay" he said quietly, "Anything else?" Mycroft shook his head.

"Not really, I don't think I need to impress on you how imperative it is that this remains a secret from Sherlock" he said. John gave a short laugh. There was no concern over _that _happening, John already knew how angry Sherlock would be if he ever found out, even if lying to him was already killing John, and he hadn't even seen the man yet. John turned to go and Mycroft followed him out, closing the door.

"And I thank you Dr Watson" Mycroft said, "It means a great deal to me. Sherlock… Sherlock has always been…difficult, even though I do try with him. I made a promise a long time ago to keep him safe Dr Watson and I'm trying my best to keep that promise, even if Sherlock does make it…interesting to fulfil at times"

John gave a chuckle at that.

"Yeah, I can imagine" he said, grinning, "I'll see you soon Mycroft"

"Goodbye Dr Watson. I'll see you soon," Mycroft said, "I'm assigning you to her straight away so she'll be your primary patient come Monday. I… I hope you can help her when you do get her case Dr Watson…she really is very sick". John nodded in understanding. All he had to do now was keep this from Sherlock. John felt his heart sink. _I hope he doesn't find out, _John thought, _or I might not be here Monday _to _treat her. _

John returned home fifteen minutes later, the London traffic clogging up the streets as usual and he was relieved to finally make it home. Relaxing immediately into his chair, he hardly noticed Sherlock lying on the sofa, watching him as John closed his eyes sleepily.

"What did he want?" Sherlock said suddenly and John only just managed to stop the very unmanly scream from emerging by changing it swiftly to an embarrassing squeak.

"Jeez Sherlock, you scared me to death!" John cried, clutching his heart. Annoyed, he threw the case file at his flatmate, hoping to God he'd be uninterested. "Case," he said, "He wanted me to give you it since you always refuse them when he gives you them. He thought it'd be better if I did it". Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John quickly decided to elaborate, embellishing the story a little.

"I can't believe it either, dragging me there to be a messenger boy, he could have just given you it himself, but oh no! The man practically threatened me with a knighthood for helping him out" John said quickly. Sherlock gave a suspicious glare and for a long moment it seemed as if he was about to say something, but then he did something John hadn't expected. Giving a slight chuckle, he threw the case file in the waste paper bin nearby.

"Typical Mycroft" he said, shrugging as best he could when he was lying down on the sofa. John quickly blinked away his surprise. If Sherlock had noticed John's astounded look, he didn't mention it and instead launched into an animated theory on his latest case, filling John in on the events at the Yard, frowning at John's "stupid" questions and giggling, almost actually giggling at when he told John, in actual quotes, the insults he used to embarrass Anderson and Donovan.

John sat listening, all the while thinking of the blonde haired woman he had met today. Shivering, he decided for certain that Sherlock would be better off not knowing, for now at least, about the woman sat in the clinic right now, waiting for admittance to the hospital closest to their flat. But as John listened to how Sherlock deduced the killer from an old teapot and a paperclip, John had the gnawing feeling that it wasn't going to be a secret for very long.

* * *

_**A/N **__Does Sherlock suspect? Will John be able to keep it a secret? ____Will we ever find out Anthea's real name? _ _Next chapter is set for next week, no later than Sunday this time if the memory stick holds out :S (Actually no, this one is getting saved to my computer so this one will be okay :D) If there are grammar/spelling errors, especially towards the end, please forgive me. There's really no excuse but the hour was late and I was desperate to at least __**try **__and get it posted on time. But anyway, hope you enjoyed it anyway :) _


	8. Selfish

_**A/N: **Thanks again guys for all your reviews and favourites/alerts, I reread every single one I've got since chapter 1 today and I was grinning like an idiot. My mum was just like "What are you reading?" (*Wierd child*) So yeah, aside from making me look insane, you guys are the bestest people ever! (And making me look insane isn't hard :S) _

_We have some drama going on in this chapter guys, hope you're all geared up for it! Lols, a warning: swearing (only 1, but strong, word) is used in this chapter, so sorry if it offends but I felt it was necessary to the feel of the fic and the character right now Hope the characters aren't too dramatic, but at least it makes for fun writing (and I hope reading)! :D_

_**Disclaimer: **__My flying monkeys have been helping me out with these blasted sniffles, fetching me hot water bottles and such. They even helped me write a randsom note demanding Sherlock in exchange for the stolen BBC finance plans I stole. Unfornately, despite their help, I sneezed on the note and so I'm unable to send it since my nasty DNA is all over it... damn DNA testing...  
However, God bless my little monkey minions, perhaps their hearts are in the right place after all? *Ah! Get off me! Stop pulling my hair! Hey!* Huh, guess these guys have more moral confusion than I thought..._

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_

John sat nervously in the taxi. Clinic wasn't exactly his favourite place ever to be in the first place, but today was worse. John couldn't think of anywhere he was more reluctant to go to right now, Afghanistan included. He grimaced as he looked out of the windows, trying to forget everything that had happened yesterday.

To John's surprise, and dismay, Sherlock had practically holed himself up in his room all night on Saturday and it wasn't till late yesterday that he came out, head down, crossing the room only to lay on the sofa, his back turned to John. John had crept in from the kitchen, suspecting that Sherlock was asleep, but had jumped a mile when Sherlock's voice came softly from where he was lying down.

"The case Mycroft gave you," Sherlock began. John felt his stomach leap. _Oh God, _he thought, _he knows already. _

"Yes?" John said, and cringed at how falsely innocent it came out. Sherlock rolled over and _glared _at him. Not just a stare either, John noted, but an actual I-will-kill-you-slowly-and-painfully kind of stare, the one he used for his brother when he came around asking Sherlock to take cafses he had no interest in. The stare that usually only John and Mycroft himself could stand up against; Mycroft out of what John had labelled "Sibling rivalry gone crazy", Mycroft's signature stubbornness and authority, John out of the knowledge that despite what the stare looked like, John knew it was not always as threatening as it seemed, especially when directed at him (these were the times when the gaze seemed a lot more tame). However today, even John felt the need to shy away from it as he felt an unbelievable amount of shame and guilt flood him.

Sherlock's stare wavered a little and became an aloof, detached look, almost indignant looking.

"It wasn't a case. You're doing something for him that you're not allowed to tell me about" Sherlock deduced, his face as unrevealing as ever. John shifted uncomfortably and Sherlock sat up, hands clasped together, staring him out.

"What is it John?" Sherlock said evenly. John bit his lip in indecision.

"Sherlock…" he began and Sherlock almost _growled _at him. A literal growl, something that nearly made John back down altogether.

"John, I do not care for being lied to" Sherlock warned, "I don't like making you feel uncomfortable, however Mycroft's little games aren't as innocent as you'd think".

John nearly laughed at that. _Tell me about it, _he thought grudgingly.

"Whatever it is, Mycroft has hidden it better than I thought, you need to tell me what it is before he starts using you for his own gain on the matter" Sherlock cautioned, and there seemed to be a strange flicker of something in Sherlock's dark eyes, something close to concern but not quite, it was something John couldn't quite place.

"John," Sherlock said and John felt like running away. Sherlock's face was looking more and more hurt by the minute and there was a tinge of desperation to his features that John had never seen before, that John had never wanted to see before. It was if Sherlock already knew, that he just wanted confirmation, but that wasn't like Sherlock. And John was pretty sure that Mycroft really did hide it as well as Sherlock had said. But it definitely meant that Sherlock knew something bad was happening, and he knew that both John and Mycroft were involved.

Sherlock sighed and leaned back in his chair. John's stomach was doing cartwheels as Sherlock seemed to avoid his gaze for a second and he suddenly looked exhausted.

"I need to know John or otherwise I cannot do anything about it" Sherlock informed him. John nodded but said nothing. A few seconds passed and then John jumped as Sherlock seemed to explode in a mix of impatience and frustration, obviously spawned for, for once in what must have been a very long time, not knowing what was going on.

"For God's sake John, is your promise to Mycroft more important? Is he more important to you than the man you share your flat with 24/7? Or do you take pride in keeping me in the dark?" Sherlock exploded, "Whatever Mycroft wants; I promise you it will be bad for me and maybe even for you, I promise you! He always does this John! Are you completely blind? He does it on purpose!"

There was nothing for a beat as Sherlock's explosion died down and John seemed to barely control his own rage. Is that what Sherlock thought? That he's just turn on him the moment Mycroft proposed a plan? That he _liked _keeping things from him? That he did it to spite him, that _Mycroft _did it to spite him? He could practically feel anger bubbling. It was hard enough to do this to him in the first place without Sherlock having a go at him for it. He opened his mouth and then it shut it again, too many words wanting to pour out all at once and none of them making their way past his throat. He felt as if he was going to start shaking angrily any minute now, and Sherlock's accusing stare was making it worse. Without a sound, he turned, heading purposefully towards the door. He needed  
some air.

Sherlock got up behind him, following him, annoyingly something he never normally would do.

"Tell me John" Sherlock said, coming up behind him as John began to walk away.

"Sherlock, no, just…don't ask okay? Trust me okay" John said, teeth gritted as he tried to ignore him as best he could.

"Oh, of course, easy to trust someone who is lying to you, is it not John? I feel so much better already" Sherlock said, his voice dripping with venom. John felt irritation spark his anger and he nearly turned around.

"But it's okay for you isn't it" Sherlock continued, "You just get Mycroft to help and there's no way I'd find out, it's okay for you John".

John rounded on Sherlock, the other man just centimetres away.

"You selfish bastard!" John screamed, "You think it's easy for me? You think it's easy for me to lie to you? Well, you know what Sherlock? Believe what you want okay? If you think this is fun for me, go ahead!" Sherlock's expression didn't change, it was the same calculating yet malevolent stare he gave in his show downs when catching criminals, the stare that was both intimidating and analysing at the same time, never quite angry, always controlled and ordered, but nonetheless threatening. John stared him out, holding his gaze with as much force as he could. They stayed like that for a moment, staring each other out and eventually Sherlock narrowed his eyes, turning away. When he spoke again, his voice was level again, toneless like a computer and just as unfeeling.

"Fine" he said, "I'll see you later then I suppose" The last part was icy and John winced, his anger immediately gone after his outburst.

"Sherlock, I-" John began

"Weren't you going out?" Sherlock asked, cutting across John's words like a frozen blade, just as cold and sharp. A little of John's earlier anger and indignation had returned at that and he had turned, whirling back around to go out of the door. He stopped in the doorway, spinning around to say something else, his mouth open to form the words, but thought better of it. He left, mumbling angrily to himself, heading out into the cold.

For the rest of the day John had busied himself visiting Sarah and having coffee, even visiting Molly from the hospital at one point. He had returned home before dark however, his anger gone completely and ready to apologise. But when he returned, Sherlock was gone, no doubt on his most recent case, attempting to either spite John or make an attempt at forgetting the previous argument. _Or both,_ John thought. Huffing in indignation, he decided to go to bed. Aiming a couple of well-aimed curses at Sherlock's mother, John slumped into his bedroom. _Whatever happens though,_ John thought, _I'll have plenty of time to be cursing Sherlock's mother tomorrow._

John had caught a cab the next day to the clinic. Sherlock hadn't arrived back home last night, but John had got a text at least.

_Chasing criminal. Home by 11am. Have a good day at the day job. SH_

John smiled a little. Typical Sherlock. As if nothing had happened, teasing him over his "boring" day job and arriving home late. Yet the text sounded too… apologetic. Most of the time Sherlock wouldn't even send a text if he was arriving home late, he's just allow John to worry sick over him before callinfg Scotland Yard. And it only made John feel worse. He was just about to text back when the cab pulled over outside the hospital and John's insides twisted up. Paying the cabbie, he got out; almost immediately wanting to run back in and going right back to Baker Street.

Scowling, he headed inside.

"You have a Mrs Holmes being assigned to you Dr Watson, were you told?" the receptionist said. John nodded, sighing.

"Bad day already?" she said and John smiled.

"A bit yeah. What room is she in?"

"414, cardiology unit" she said, handing him a file. John nodded, grimacing. _Heart and Lung unit, _he thought. He'd been right about her breathing at least, he noted. Thanking her, he made his way down to cardiology, swinging open the door of 414, only swiftly knocking before he went in, more out of courtesy for Mycroft who was undoubtedly there, than the woman inside.

He was right about Mycroft. He was stood by the bed, his assistant sat in the corner texting on her mobile. John purposefully avoided Mrs Holmes' gaze, choosing to look at Mycroft instead. Despite his arguments with Sherlock, John couldn't think of anyone he could despise more right now. And to make it worse, the woman was smiling sweetly at him as he addressed Mycroft.

"Good morning Mycroft" John sighed, "Okay, so Mrs Holmes is staying here due to repeated instances of hospitalisation and has been recommended to stay in while she recovers to a good amount of health right?"

Mycroft nodded, "We were told it would be best if she was kept in hospital for the time being until her situation improves. With the colder weather, she's been getting worse. But, we were also told that we should get her checked out. This is the worst she's ever been". John nodded, writing it down.

"Is it true she coughed up a small about of blood earlier?" John asked and Mycroft seemed to blanch worriedly.

"Yes" he said simply. _So, _John thought, _I'm expected to at least try and deliver good news when she's coughing up blood? _He looked at the woman's O2 stats. They weren't great. The best thing he could do right now was to get some tests done. Until then, she was under "careful observation" or a better way of saying "watch until something changes". _For better or worse, _John thought gloomily.

He looked down at her and was suspicious to see her still smirking up at him.

"Shall I leave you too it?" Mycroft said. John shrugged.

"If you're busy" he replied. Mycroft nodded and motioned for not-really-Anthea to follow him, her nametag reading Jolene today. He nodded to her as she passed. He also gave her a smile but she promptly ignored him and he sighed as she left the room, leaving him alone with Mrs Holmes, who he glanced nervously over to as the two left the room.

"She used to be such a talkative one that assistant of his" she said. John was surprised by how cheery she seemed and hunted for words, but found none, so instead he walked to stand beside the bed, adjusting the meds to suit his patient, but all the while not trusting the smirk that she seemed to be giving no one in particular.

To say John was surprised by the elderly lady would be an understatement. The whole time, even during tests, she was nothing short of charming. She asked John about his work at the hospital and his time in Afghanistan, even making polite conversation about his home life (John carefully avoided mentioning Sherlock for fear of somehow Sherlock finding out). But all the while, John couldn't help but feel as if every word she spoke was cutting him with a knife. At points she was sarcastic or demeaning and while everything else she said seemed fine enough, sometimes there would be just the one sentence, just a line that would cut right to the heart of whatever was bothering you. John found it disturbing to realise just how Sherlock had managed it earlier and he was nothing but glad to get out of the hospital when he finally finished his shift.

Getting into a cab outside the hospital, he cringed to think what Sherlock would be like when he got home. _But then again, _he thought, _surely it couldn't be worse than the icy woman staying in the hospital? _He sighed and silently dreaded his next day at work. If it wasn't keeping it from Sherlock, then it was dealing with his scary mother and her sinister ways. _And if that wasn't a nightmare enough,_ John noted, _I bet Sherlock has made a mess of the flat for when I get home._

The flat was a mess when he came home as he had expected. Sighing loudly, he trudged through a small pile of what looked like boxes of mud samples, stopping short when he spotted Sherlock, sat at the kitchen table, carefully mixing chemicals. He decided it was better to leave him too it. Beginning to sneak to his own room, he was stopped again when Sherlock glanced up at him.

"Good evening" Sherlock said, almost cheerfully. Obviously the case had been going well. _Not that he would have told me, he's been ignoring me so much,_ John thought. It was almost as if Sherlock heard John's thoughts as John found himself being beckoned over to where Sherlock was sat. Sherlock indicated the test tube he was conducting his experiments on and gave it to John.

"Gunpowder" he said simply, "Found on the suspects shoes. It's the same as the one used for the murder"

"So, you've found your guy then?" John asked, almost too tired to show any real enthusiasm, despite how pleased he was at being included after their argument. Sherlock nodded.

"Nearly. I don't believe I have the entire story though, I'm going to find out tomorrow" he said.

"Whole story?"

Sherlock gave another nod and pulled another vial from the table.  
"Another item of his clothing, but this time, the gunpowder is completely different, like the ones used in powerful explosives" he said.

"A bomb?" John's eyes widened a little but Sherlock merely shrugged.

"Obviously". John rolled his eyes at that, leaning in to look at the little pile of gunpowder residue at the bottom of the vial. There was a little bit of silence and Sherlock leaned back a little to allow some light to fall on the tube while also studying John's worried face. Giving a chuckle, he said, "Don't worry so John, he isn't dangerous".

John nodded but heard the mix of both amusement and a promise in Sherlock's voice and didn't say anything.

"In fact," Sherlock said, "I was wondering if you would come with me". John turned to stare at him. It had only been two weeks that John hadn't been on cases and that was, John knew, down to Sherlock sorting his own problems for the while, but it was still more than John had hoped to hear the little invite once again. He smiled.

"What time?" he said, causing Sherlock to grin wryly at him.

"Straight after you finish at your day job, I'll be sending some evidence to the yard early morning so I can probably meet you at the station" Sherlock said. John smiled and gave a nod of approval.

"I'll be straight there then," John said, turning to leave for his room to hide the grin spreading across his face, but he had only got a few steps away when Sherlock called him back, making him turn around. Sherlock looked straight at him and John's stomach sank at the serious expression on his face.

"I'm still not happy about this…secret thing," Sherlock said, "but I trust you to be making the right decisions on whatever it is you and Mycroft are doing. You're smarter than I make you out to be sometimes and I trust in you to do what's best, even at my expsence, so… I'll stay away from the matter as long as you're sure you can do this… and of course, that when you can, you will tell me.".

John blinked, shocked into silence.

"My brother is good at keeping secrets John. I can only expect him to be careful, and in doing so he chose you. Why? Because he believes that whatever this is, I shouldn't hear it for fear it may put me in a disruptive situation, or otherwise he would not have chosen you to keep it from me. If it was something you felt I should hear, that wouldn't put me in a bad situation, you'd tell me… and Mycroft wouldn't take that chance. Therefore this is something I have to trust you and Mycroft to deal with… for now" Sherlock said. John blinked, and then gave a small smile. Sherlock was, after all, the world's greatest detective. And, as usual, he had got it spot on. John gave an empathic little nod and gave Sherlock a wry smile.

"Thanks" he said, "And… um, sorry too…about this morning. I was out of line" But Sherlock had turned back to his work.

Anyone else would have taken it as rude, but John just rolled his eyes and gave a little grin. _Typical Sherlock_, he thought. He seemed to be incapable of showing more than a small piece of himself at a time. _At least_, John thought, _he seems to be okay with things for the moment. _But then again, this _was _Sherlock. He was more volatile than the gunpowder he was examining and just as dangerous, just as changeable.

He studied Sherlock for a moment and then smiled to himself, deciding a shower was probably just what he needed right now, followed by relaxing for the rest of the night. He definitely needed it at any rate. He turned to leave for his room, listening to the chinking of the test tubes as Sherlock seemed to rearrange them. _Perhaps_, he thought, _with each of these little bits of himself he shows me, maybe one day, I'll be able to put them all together. _The chinking stopped and John heard the hissing of chemicals. _But then again, _he thought, _perhaps some bits of himself are more locked away than others. _Shaking the thought away, he went to his room, greeting Mrs Hudson as he passed her in the hall.

Sherlock sat silently as John left, staring at the chemicals before taking out his phone. Typing quickly, he sent out the text and sat gazing at the instruments before resuming work, tucking the phone away in his pocket.

_You are playing a very dangerous game Mycroft. Whatever you are using John for, stop it. And whatever you are keeping from me, I'll find out. I'm no longer a child Mycroft, I can handle things myself.  
__SH_

Sherlock ignored the buzz of the reply in his pocket, snorting in irritation. Whatever it was, he was pretty sure he didn't want to hear it.

* * *

_**A/N: **Sorry Sherlock's evil mother had such a small part in it, but never fear, the evil woman is returning soon! I really wanted to focus more on Sherlock and John this chapter with a little bit of Mycroft thrown in, but never fear, it's all kicking off next chapter, which should be arriving soon!_


	9. Missing

_Only just met my deadlin this week! And posting real fast, having movie night with parents and sister! A note to all reviewers, favouriters and alerters: You are still amazing! Each and every one of you, thanks again for making it all the more awesome to write! (I am really enjoying this fic, I have so many things to do with it, it's great!)_

_**Disclaimer: **__The flying monkeys and I are off out tonight to paint the town red. On a __**school night. **__Yup, we is badass, I know. We have publicly refused to stop painting buildings red until the BBC hands Sherlock over to us. With a new drawing board thrown in. And not one of those useless clear ones they have for some of the first season of House M.D on Sky 1. I mean a real drawing board, not a rubbishy plastic one. You have been warned. _

_No…I still don't own Sherlock _

* * *

"Alright then Mrs Holmes, just one final blood test and then that's it" John tried to smile as he prepared for the final test of the day. Sherlock had left early in the morning again but he seemed to have kept to his promise about leaving things to John and he'd been in a pretty good mood as far as John knew. But then, with Sherlock, it was pretty much only John that could ever decipher him. He had received a text just one moment ago from him, very excited about having nearly caught the killer and John was preparing for the final test of the day before he could finish up and meet Sherlock.

"Did you get rid of the limp on your own then John?" Mrs Holmes asked politely. John froze. Her knowing about his previous limp didn't bother him so much, she had probably deduced he had by the way he sometimes still leaned a little to his other leg when standing for a long time writing on her chart or when he leaned to get something, even he noticed it at times, a simple side effect to his previous affliction, but the question sent a chill down his spine. The simple way in which she asked it made him wonder: Did she know that he lived with Sherlock?

Surely Mycroft wouldn't have told her. He was trying to keep the pair as far away from each other as possible, there was no sense in saying anything, but had she worked it out? John was praying to God that the brothers' talent for deduction wasn't from their mother. She had shown nothing like it when around John at least and he had begun to think that perhaps she shared none of the same skills as her sons, but he blinked at the new question. Had she worked it out? It'd surely be a leap in the dark to guess, or _deduce _as Sherlock would put it, something like that. Maybe the question was just making conversation? John had been jumping to conclusions like this all morning and he was beginning to get jumpy and it was putting him on edge.

"Um…it was my…therapist actually. Told me it was a phsycosymatic limp and I, um, worked it through" John lied. He certainly did work through it, but not quite during a therapy session. Mrs Holmes nodded and smiled and John prayed that it was an "Oh-right-I-see" kind of smile and not a "Liar" kind of smile.

John tried to shake off the verging on paranoid feelings and picked up one of the syringes on the side. "Okay Mrs Holmes, just need a sample of blood to send off to the lab then we're okay for today" John said, "You ready?" Mrs Holmes nodded and John did the test and nearly died of embarrassment when his bleeper went off midway. Blushing, he finished the test and dug out the device, checking the short message on the screen.

_Visitor for you sent up to Mrs Holmes' room_

John frowned. Visitor? Damn, it was probably Mycroft. And if it was, he hoped he wasn't going to keep him long, Sherlock had told him to hurry up and meet him in his last text and he really wasn't keen on making him wait. It was like promising a kid a trip to the toy shop and then being late, you never heard the end of it and he moaned for at least 30 minutes after too. Sighing, he finished the last bits on his charts and filed his folder, putting the new blood sample somewhere to be sent off to the lab, making sure everything was in order.

"Is that all for today Dr Watson?" Mrs Holmes asked and John nodded.

"Yeah that's all, I'll be back tomorrow just to check-up" he said. He turned, collecting up his phone and it was in that moment that the door to the room swung open and John's heart sank.

Mycroft knocked. Mycroft always knocked. So did the nurses, and Molly, and Lestraude and _anyone _who visited him on any given day. Except for one person. That one person John didn't want to be here right now, the one person he didn't want his patient to see.

"John, couldn't wait any longer, criminal is in a café by-" The man stopped talking and John turned around to see him. Damn Sherlock, John thought, too impatient. Too impatient to wait, to call, to _knock. _

Sure enough, Sherlock Holmes stood frozen in the doorway where he had run in, staring at the woman who had haunted him for the years ever since he could remember. _She can't be here, _Sherlock thought, _she can't be here. _He looked up at John and in that moment John tried to convey everything into one single look. _Sorry. Forgive me. It's okay, I'm here. She won't hurt you. I won't let her. God, don't let him hate me. Don't leave. _John watched Sherlock, his heart breaking with every passing second as Sherlock, the usually loud, talkative Sherlock, lost his voice, knowing that inside that amazing man, something had withered and died just by stepping inside that room. John thought he could see the usual sparkle leave Sherlock's eye and that same dull, submissive look that he had had all those nights ago, after he had woken from his nightmare, had returned with a vengeance.

Sherlock stared for a few moments longer and then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mrs Holmes smile and John saw in that second what cruelty looked like. Her face was twisted in a look of pure sadism and that smile was something John had never seen. It was like a cat had just seen it's favourite mouse to chase and it was planning all the ways it could mess with it before it made it die. Before she made something in Sherlock break. All John wanted to do was run and scoop Sherlock up in his arms and scurry him away, maybe even take him to his mother to be looked after properly. Strangely enough, he found himself pondering in the silent moment if Sherlock would like that. He probably would, even though he'd rather die than admit it. He'd say that it was juvenile and boring or something but John bet that he would like it really

The odd thought left his head when a second later and he snapped his head up, decision made. Whatever he was going to do, she wasn't going to be able to smile one more time at Sherlock like that, not if he could help it, he was taking him home. _Now. _He was just about to make a move when a slick voice came across the room, and John nearly fell over with surprise. It was the voice of Sherlock's mother, but not like he heard it before. Gone was the sweet, kindly individual. All he heard now was anger and spite and pure _hatred. _

"Hello Holmes" she smiled. That was it. It was all it took. Sherlock seemed to choke over a gasp, desperation and fear and utter terror filling the note. The noise that cut through John's heart like a knife and he felt as if he'd been physically punched. Sherlock seemed rooted to the spot, daring not to move, probably for fear of _her, _John thought nastily.

"How have you been? Good I hope. Better than me of course. But then, diseases never get sick do they? Filth never catch their own germs do they? They just pass them on to frail, delicate people like me," Mrs Holmes said and John nearly did fall over that time, he was spluttering over an indignant protest in his friend's defence, as Sherlock seemed too terrified to even respond, only to be interrupted by the woman. "I bet you did it on purpose, I bet you _wanted _me to die didn't you? Filth, useless! Get out! Get out I say, good riddance to you and you're scumbag father! You're just like him! Get out!"

If it was possible for Sherlock to pale any more, he did so at that and John was frightened of him passing out. But instead, he looked quickly to John and John nearly called out to him at the look in his eyes. _You did this, _Sherlock's eyes snarled at him. John watched helplessly as Sherlock turned tail, and ran.

John was after him like a shot, catching his patient's smirk as he flew after him. _God, I hope Mycroft hears this, _John thought. For the first time since he met the man, John actually couldn't wait to see him having a go at someone, and if he didn't then John definitely would, especially after just hearing that. How dare she? How dare she even _speak _to him, never mind hurt him like that? _Filth. Disease. Scumbag father. _He'd heard it all and realised immediately what Sherlock had been dealing with. It was more than John could stand to think about, _his _Sherlock, brilliant, amazing, extraordinary Sherlock having to listen to that bull-

John raced out of the hospital, tearing round the corner after Sherlock but he had already lost sight of him. He kept on running anyway, blind as to where Sherlock might have gone, but he wasn't going to give up now. Sherlock was upset, most likely devastated after hearing _that, _John would have been, and he wasn't going to give up on his friend, no way, no how. He looked around desperately as he ran to spot his friend but he was nowhere in sight, but he couldn't stop, not now, not when Sherlock needed him. And he needed Sherlock, he had to apologise to him, he had to tell him he was sorry or he'd never get to say it…Sherlock would never listen to it after today, he'd carry on like he didn't care, like it hadn't just torn a piece right out of him, like it hadn't just hurt so bad that he hadn't even been able to stay in the same room as his mother, or John for that matter.

He kept on running when he heard his phone buzz, ignoring it for a moment before taking it out, deciding, even though it was unlikely to be Sherlock, it might be someone who knew where he was. He still ran on as he checked the text, a few people shouting abuse at him as he almost collided with them.

"Sorry," he said, half-heartedly as he read the message.

_What happened? Just saw Sherlock running out of the hospital. Does he know? MH_

John shook his head in disbelief. Nothing about _how is Sherlock? _Or _is Sherlock okay? _Nothing but business as ever with him. He crinkled his nose in disgust. Another text.

_John? Answer me. MH_

Ignored again.

_John. _

John finally answered when Mycroft called him. He was still running fast, his legs killing him by now, but he had no idea where Sherlock had gone.

"John?" Mycroft's cool, collected voice drifted down the phone, "What happened? Why was Sherlock at the hospital? Does he know?" John didn't say anything, waiting. Mycroft seemed to guess what he was wanting (_Deduced what you were wanting John, _the voice that sounded a lot like Sherlock said in his head) and asked the no doubt never before spoken question.

"Is he alright John?" Mycroft asked. John nodded his approval, even though Mycroft couldn't see him. _Mind you, _John thought, _I bet he has a tonne of cameras round here, hence how he saw the hospital I suppose. _

"He came running in about a case about 5 minutes before I was due to go and meet him" John gasped, out of breath, "I couldn't stop him… he saw your mother and…" _Your mother. _John had been careful to make sure he said that. _Your mother, not Sherlock's, a mother isn't like that, not a real one, _John thought, _she isn't Sherlock's mother, not to him anyway, and not to me. _

"And?" Mycroft asked as John tailed off. John slowed to a jog and then to a tired walk, no idea as to where Sherlock had gone. In fact, he barely knew where he was, never mind where Sherlock was.

"And your mum tore him to pieces" John snarled bluntly into the mobile. There was silence on the other end.

"Right. Thank you John for your help. And if you could still meet me at the hospital tomorrow I'd be very much in your debt," Mycroft said. John was about to argue but there was no interrupting the other man

"I'll try to see to it that Sherlock doesn't do anything too rash, but with you still around I don't think there's much he'll do, but just watch him when he's at home okay? He has a tendency to be a bit… self-destructive and I would hate for you to be caught up in it".

John considered that. He remembered the drugs bust Lestraude had set up on their first case together, the first time he had caught his best friend using cocaine. What it had done to him when he had found him. It had hurt to see him like that… a drug addict. He shuddered.

"Do you know where he might be?" John asked. He imagined Mycroft shaking his head.

"No. I may be able to detect him, but he can quite elusive when he wants to be. He's been off my radar once or twice before" Mycroft told him. John thanked him, although he wasn't sure what for and he hung up, slowing to a halt in the street as his phone buzzed another message through.

_John. Not up to being chased right now. Thanks for keeping that from me, it helped for all of about a second. Your genius plan failed, well done and all that. Tell Mycroft to get lost. Don't even bother waiting up. SH_

John stared at the text for a while, not feeling anything. There were too many feelings _to _feel. He felt angry, because what was he supposed to do? Just have told him about it? Sure, that would have gone well. _"Hey Sherlock, we've got your mum here at the hospital and she doesn't know you're here, but hey, you wanna meet her? I'm sure it'd be a happy reunion" _What had he expected John to do? But then, he guessed Sherlock would be telling him exactly the next time he sent a text or came home. He felt worried, what did he mean "Don't bother waiting up?" When was he coming home? Where was he even? But most of all, guilt was sweeping over him like a wave. _You _should _have told him, _John scolded himself, _idiot! He trusted you! Screw what Mycroft said, you should have told him! He trusted you! _Trusted. Past tense, John thought morbidly. Not any more, he thought.

John got back to the flat almost two hours later. He'd walked home slowly, dead on his feet, stopping off everywhere he thought Sherlock might have been, but no luck. He was nowhere to be found. But then, John hadn't expected him to just turn up. This was Sherlock after all. If Sherlock didn't want to be found, he wouldn't be found. Flicking on the light he flopped onto the sofa, noting without surprise that the room was lacking a certain best friend. _His _best friend. Missing. Swallowing down worried thoughts, he begin searching his mind for places Sherlock might be. _Please Sherlock, _he thought, _don't do anything stupid. _

* * *

_**A/N **__Sherlock? Doing something stupid? Of course not! Right? (Actually I think he might be more likely to do something stupid now than anyone really). Guess we'll find out next time! *Cue cheesy end theme music*_


	10. Guilty As Charged

_A/N Sorry this post is a little late but tried to kill me! Seriously! No idea how long they had the problem for but every time I tried to log in it told me that there was an error or something. I know someone else with the same problem. Did anyone else have any trouble logging in recently? I couldn't even review let alone post, I was lost! _

_Reviewers, alerters and favouriters: You know what I'm gunna say :) Sending virtual cookies to you all :) _

_**Disclaimer: **__Due to the _really _long seeming psycho-analysis I seemed to have drawled on about at the end of this chapter, my flying monkeys took me to a physiatrist to try and get me sorted out. The first one ran as soon as she saw the monkeys but the second one stayed. We talked about my obsessions and why I wanted to steal Sherlock so much and she was great, the longest five minutes any of my physiatrists have ever lasted. She ran out screaming after I told her everything that had happened in the last slash fic I read and how the smut played out, in complete, juicy detail.  
__  
She also gave me no ideas on how to steal Sherlock. I'm now using her white board to draw upon, meaning Mission: Steal Sherlock is back ago! But he still doesn't belong to me. _

_Longest disclaimer ever. I am proud. I should be in the Guinness World Records or something. The flying monkeys are plotting to put me in there. I'm pretty sure that's the longest disclaimer I've ever read. _

* * *

A thump in the bottom hallway woke him. Blearily, his eyes flittered open and he gave a groan, wiping the sleep from them. He rolled onto his back, the sofa he was sleeping on making the movement awkward. John guessed that he had fallen asleep waiting up for if Sherlock came home. He checked the time. 3:15am. John Watson had certainly had his fair share of early awakenings when living with a guy like Sherlock, whether from an experiment gone wrong or the violin at 2am in the morning or something else insane. But this was different. It _felt _different.

"Sherlock?" he said. There was no answer.

"Sherlock?" he said again, frowning as he got up, walking to the door. Peering down the stairs, he looked down and spotted a shadow in the dark. "Sherlock!" he whispered loudly, hoping not to wake Mrs Hudson. The figure turned and John let out a sigh of relief. Of course it was Sherlock.

"Yes John?" the figure said, not bothering to be quiet.

"Shh, Mrs Hudson's asleep. It's 3:15, where have you been? I thought… I thought you'd… never mind" John said. _Done something stupid, _would have been what he wanted to have said. But despite everything, he really didn't have the heart to say it.

John turned and went back to the living room, hearing Sherlock run up the stairs after him.

"So, have you and Mycroft been having a good chat on where to stab me next? Back is taken I'm afraid, already done, finished, gone, stabbed, cannibalised, torn apart, _ruined" _Sherlock said when he reached him. His voice was almost upbeat. John whipped round. _What? _

"Sherlock?" he said. No, _that _wasn't Sherlock. Sherlock was always the picture of control. He could be cruel, but this was further. This was…. This was just not him. "What have you done Sherlock?" John asked, "You've done something, this… this isn't like you"

"And lying to me isn't like you John" Sherlock spat, suddenly deadly serious "Actually, no, not lying, it's more than that, but then, it was Mycroft too as well, so I guess blame gets shared, right? Is that what normal people do with their normal lives? Do they carry on without blaming someone when they're lied to, because that's what you're suggesting. You're suggesting-"

"Sherlock!" John cried, cutting him off.

He'd seen Sherlock's eyes. Caught a glimpse of them while trying to figure out what was causing Sherlock to say all this. He was sure to be angry, John knew that, but this was something else altogether.

"You're eyes are dilated" John said plainly. _His eyes are dilated. _John shook his head.

"Please tell me you didn't Sherlock" John said, his voice pleading. The drugs bust, with Lestraude, it hadn't been entirely fake and John had once caught Sherlock using morphine from the hospital to "clear his mind". But this wasn't morphine, morphine calmed him down, this was making him worse.

"Sherlock, have you taken something?" John asked. _Please say no, _he thought silently. _Please, please say no. _

Sherlock grinned as if he'd read John's mind. "Of course not John" he sneered and John snarled, losing his temper. He reached for Sherlock who tried to dodge away but whatever was in his system was putting him off balance and John had to catch him before he toppled over, grabbing his arm and pulling of the sleeve. Tiny needle pricks tracked his wrist and John drew in a sharp bit of air through his teeth.

"Sherlock," he said, teeth gritted, "What the _hell _is this?" He didn't need to be told. _Pupils dilated, little balance, talking fast, talking _more_, running up the stairs. _

"It was cocaine, wasn't it Sherlock?" he snarled. Sherlock grinned.

"Very well done doctor, I'm very impressed" Sherlock grinned, travelling across to the sofa and flopping down, "Really I am"  
"Sherlock, how much did you take?"

"7 per cent solution John, don't worry, I do it all the time" Sherlock said, smiling.

"Really?" John snarled, advancing over to the sofa, "And that's fine is it? To take an illegal drug, then saunter back here and tell me it's all alright? Is that what you'd normally do? Is it Sherlock?"

John watched Sherlock gaze at him. The drugs had obviously been taken a while back, maybe an hour or so, the effects were less potent by now, but they were still working well enough. He was seething, watching the usually brilliant detective stare up at him like only the drugs ever mattered in the world. Sherlock's eyes turned dangerous all of a sudden and he sat up quickly.

"Oh, but its fine for you to conspire against me, as long as you don't do it here? I can go, sleep elsewhere if it's such an inconvenience for you John" Sherlock spat

"You know that's not what I meant! God damn it Sherlock, do you have any idea what this stuff will do to you? Jesus Sherlock, I thought you'd at least consider what it'd do-"

"I do consider, it helps me think" Sherlock said.

"And this is what you think is it? That me and Mycroft were _conspiring _against you? Jeez Sherlock, it's not like we wanted to do it!"

"Then why do it? John? Why do it? If it _hurt _you so much, if it was so terrible for you?" Sherlock sneered.

It didn't matter what John said. He could have told him that he did it to spite him and he wouldn't have cared, he could have told him he did it to protect him and it wouldn't have made the slightest bit of difference. Nothing John said could. Sherlock had either already made up his mind, or he had deduced what he'd needed, good or bad. The rest was the drugs talking. The rest was that thing that Sherlock did, even if it was subconscious, where he'd just keep goddamn _pushing _until someone broke. Until someone got hurt. And it didn't matter who it was as long as it got a reaction, as long as Sherlock could see how long it was before they snapped, before they _left _him, like he though they always would. It wasn't conscious most of the time, John knew that, but somewhere deep inside, it was as if he was trying to get proof that everyone he knew would leave him, like he knew it was going to happen. Because he always had to be right. And now, all of that was amplified because of the drugs, because of something John hadn't been able to stop him from doing, because of something John knew he had done to make him take them in the first place.

_Feeling guilty is not going to help, _John thought, _you need to calm him down before he does something else. _"Sherlock, listen to me," John said and as he did so, he knelt down, putting a hand on either side of Sherlock's face to make him face him, "And try to remember this for when the drugs wash out of your system okay? I lied. Yes, I did, okay? I did it and I feel guiltier than you'd think, I feel like I might as well have stabbed you in the back for all that it mattered. I did it because I thought it'd be better if you didn't know. Because then it wouldn't hurt you. It wouldn't do this to you. But I was wrong, I was stupid. And I'm sorry"

Sherlock stared at him for a long while after that and John could almost _hear _the words he wanted to say, all of them. _I don't believe you, I forgive you, I don't understand why. _Eventually his gaze dropped and John let go. Eventually, Sherlock spoke.

"Usually, I can remember everything when the drugs go John. They help me think, they help me process things, they…they numb me too. I can look at things unbiased. I didn't notice the way you're shirt was wrinkled today when you were in the clinic with… with her… because I was angry. I didn't notice. But, but I do now" Sherlock said, and the voice was so quiet that John had to lean in a little to hear it.

"My….my shirt? What?" John asked. He almost felt like laughing. Only Sherlock could say something like that at a time like this. Only Sherlock could be almost normal while full of cocaine.

"Yes. It was wrinkled and you hadn't ironed it but you normally iron all your clothes, especially when going out, but you were nervous, I could tell by the way you'd tied you double knotted your shoes, they were messy unlike usual, and so, being nervous you forgot to iron your clothes" Sherlock explained and John physically saw him slip into deduction mode, "If you were scared of me finding out because I'd be angry then you'd have covered your tracks, but, as it was, you were worried… maybe…maybe about me… so you didn't. You… really were… you didn't mean it… I think"

John noticed Sherlock's voice grow uncharacteristically small as he trailed off and John gave a sad smile and sat down next to his friend.

"Listen, Sherlock, even if you didn't know that, I'd still be sorry. I really would. I'm your friend, and I did something wrong and I'm sorry" John sighed, "But you have to stop with these drugs Sherlock, _please._ They'll kill you! Or, in your case, worse if your brain degenerates because of it, the tissue changes will-"

"It helps me think"

"Sherlock-" John couldn't believe it. Drugs. His best friend was an addict and worst of all, _he wasn't listening to him. _"Sherlock, _please. _It'd be hard but-"

"It's not hard John, I just prefer to continue to use. It stimulates the mind John" Sherlock stated plainly, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

John shook his head. Sherlock wouldn't listen to him. And he knew for a fact who he might listen to, if only because he would threaten him with a knighthood, and that was Mycroft Holmes. Sighing, he brought up the subject he knew would only make things worse. But things had to get worse, John mused, before they got better.

"Does Mycroft know about this?" John asked. Sherlock stiffened next to him and stood up quickly.

"He's been in my… line of fire about it before" Sherlock said stiffly. John winced at the tone of voice.

"And what did he say?" John asked but there was no reply. "Sherlock! Don't ignore me, this is serious, you could die if you carry on-"

"Would you care?" Sherlock said quietly. John stopped mid-sentence. He had barely heard the tiny statement, barely audible over John's rant, a quiet, tentative question. Not accusatory or nervous, but more curious, as if he was genuinely confused as to what the answer would be. _What? _John felt like saying. _What did he mean, "Would I care?" Why would he even ask that? Why does he need me to tell him that? He knows- _

John cut off his own thoughts. Sherlock did know, didn't he? Surely he knew, it was what a friendship was, it was caring about someone, about what happened to them. Surely…surely Sherlock knew that? Surely he knew that he was his friend, no, his _best _friend.

"What?" John spluttered. Sherlock blinked at him; suddenly the drugs seemed to fade away for a moment.

"Would you care? If they did kill me? If…if I died?" Sherlock asked and the genuine curiosity made tears spring to John's eyes.

"Of course! Jesus Sherlock, of course I'd bloody well care! You're my friend, of course I'd care if something happened to you, God, I was a mess when you collapsed and you think I'd just be okay when you waltz in and declare you've taken drugs? God Sherlock, I thought you'd know that-"

Sherlock's gaze stopped him. For the first time ever, there was something in Sherlock's eyes that John had never seen before. Hope. It was as if he had been waiting his entire life to hear someone say that and now Sherlock's glassy eyes appeared glazed over with something other than the drugs he had taken and John was pretty sure they had dampened for a moment.

That was when John understood. All these years and Sherlock didn't know what it was to have a friend… to have someone _care_ about him. All this time he'd spent alone with no-one else but his brother to look after him, being told for years that he was worthless, that he was nothing, useless. And now, to be told that, despite everything, despite the heads in the freezer, despite the drugs and the arguments and the annoyance, someone still cared. Regardless. Sherlock looked as if nothing else in the world mattered.

"God Sherlock…" John muttered. _What did she do to you? _John thought. That woman, Sherlock's so called "mother", had spent years building up something so terrible in Sherlock's mind that it had been unable to comprehend even the smallest amount of companionship. The hurt in Sherlock's eyes made John want to hug him and keep him safe forever but instead he stayed seated as Sherlock seemed to process, his analytical mind working out what appeared to be a puzzle for him. _How is it, _John thought, _that someone like that, as _brilliant _as Sherlock, finds friendship the biggest puzzle? _

Sherlock seemed to blink and come back to himself, a sad look filling his eyes. _No, _John thought, _he wasn't sad. _He was ashamed. He could see it in Sherlock's eyes. He was ashamed of himself. Whether because he thought he had let John down or because of the drugs John didn't know. Maybe he was ashamed that he had had to ask in the first place, did John think Sherlock didn't trust the doctor enough to care about him? Because, that wasn't true, not entirely, Sherlock thought. He did trust the doctor. But after years of being told not to, to never trust anyone to care, it was hard. It was so very hard. But looking at the doctor, the friend, sat, waiting for him to speak, he was sure, for once in his life, that maybe he could do it. Maybe, just maybe, he could learn to trust, for the first time in his life, someone who cared.

"Sherlock?" John said, quietly. Sherlock's head snapped up and he seemed to be back to normal.

"Mm?" he said, turning to pick up a bunch of gunpowder samples on the side, the moment over.

"Um… you should really tell Mycroft you know. I think he could help" John muttered. Sherlock turned around, surprised, he hadn't been expecting that. But then the ashamed look returned as John noticed how Sherlock's hands were shaking on the test tubes from the drug use and Sherlock, inexplicably, nodded slowly.

"Fine" he said.

John let out a sigh of relief and sent a text to Mycroft, ignoring the earliness of the hour, telling him that Sherlock had come home…and to come over as soon as he got the chance.

_Be there in the morning MH _

John nodded. Good. Getting up, he headed to the kitchen, sighing. He was still angry. Angry that Sherlock had actually taken the drugs, that he could just do that to himself when he was so brilliant. But he wasn't angry about him coming home. He would have rather him have come home than have stayed out, especially in this state, and judging by Sherlock's mood swings, he had been glad that he had been upbeat rather than upset when he had first taken them, or else he could have done something stupid.

Not wanting to encourage him on his drug taking, John wondered if food was the best idea right now. He knew that taking drugs gave you a crazy appetite and he was sure that giving Sherlock anything to eat might encourage him to think it was okay when it wasn't. But then again, now was pretty much the only time he'd get to feed the man. So, sighing, he headed off to make macaroni cheese, figuring he wasn't going to be going back to bed anytime soon with Sherlock still coming down off of the drugs and his mood changing as often as it was. He was about to start looking in the cupboards for food when Sherlock called him.

"Yeah?" John said. Sherlock's glazed eyes looked up at him from where he was sat on the sofa, precariously testing chemicals against the gunpowder, something that was worrying John no end, but he thought it was best to leave him to it for now. It was Sherlock after all.

Sherlock seemed to consider for a moment and then looked back down to his work.

"Mycroft… didn't like it. The first time he caught me taking drugs. I didn't think he'd approve exactly but I didn't think he'd react like he did" Sherlock said, so quiet that John had to come back into the living room to hear it as Sherlock levelled his eyes on John.

"Well, he is your brother Sherlock, he was probably worried sick" John reasoned. Mycroft never struck him as someone who'd worry, no matter what he said, but he probably did. He was the brother of Sherlock Holmes after all. Who wouldn't worry?

"He threatened to tell the police that my evidence was unreliable, that they couldn't trust me. I'd only just started as a detective. If they believed him… I'd have nothing else. So… I had a row with him and he made me give him all my drugs but I didn't speak to him for months. Not even when he sent his assistant." Sherlock seemed to be talking more to himself than John. John was only a little surprise. It sounded a lot like something Mycroft would do.

Sherlock poured some more chemicals into a test tube and watched the colour change, writing it down and John was sure that he had said everything he'd needed to, but it was only a moment later when he spoke again.

"He's always been like that. It's like he wants to crush me all the time" Sherlock growled and John actually laughed out loud. Sherlock looked up in surprise, eyes wide and questioning. John chuckled. Now _that _was familiar.

"What?" Sherlock asked, confused.

"Now, _that _I can relate to!" John laughed, "I think pretty much everyone with a sibling can! I know what Harry's like, she's crazy with making sure I'm alright. It's insane! It's just a sibling thing to do; it's not unusual or anything"

Sherlock frowned. "They're supposed to be like that?" he said and John smiled.

"Dunno if they're supposed to be, but they usually are. It's just how it is with them sometimes, but it's a good thing Sherlock. To have someone looking out for you. It might not seem like it at the time, but he really does try to help"

"Doesn't feel like it" Sherlock pouted. John gave a chuckle. It was like hearing his own words being repeated back to him, he'd said the same thing to his dad about his sister.

"It never does. And I do think Mycroft can be a bit extreme, but he cares a lot about you Sherlock. And I think he does show it, but you can't get past your differences to see it. If you stopped fighting you'd probably be okay"

"Can't imagine that" Sherlock grumbled. John shook his head with a smile.

"You do seem to be at it a lot" John admitted "But after all this time, you're still in touch after all this, aren't you? I mean, even after he threatened to stop your business and I can imagine you were no angel either sometimes"

Sherlock grumbled under his breath but seemed to get what John was getting at.

"You just need to meet each other halfway" John said and Sherlock smiled. He was sure that that was from a film or something. But there was something in it that rang true, even though he was sure he'd never admit it. John smiled at him and went back into the kitchen, leaving Sherlock sat, thinking about what John had said to him. He wasn't going to forgive Mycroft for what he'd done, so why had he let John text him? Frowning, he poured more fluid into a test tube and watched the tiny residue of powder change colour, a cold black colour changing slowly to a warm, almost glowing red. _Perhaps John's just a good influence on you, _Sherlock thought. _Or maybe it makes sense. Maybe you really don't want to fight anymore. _Sherlock shook his head. Fighting with Mycroft was too much fun to stop. But the thought stuck in his head and continued to haunt his mind as John arrived twenty minutes later with a cheesy concoction that Sherlock grudgingly ate, swallowing his pride and giving in to the drug induced hunger.

Not ten minutes after eating, Sherlock had given in to the come-down of the drugs and was sleeping on the sofa. Sighing, John put a blanket over him and stretched, heading off to bed sullenly, knowing that work was going to be hell the next day. 5am and he was only just about to sleep. Two hours sleep, a predictably early visit from Mycroft and work at 9am all put John in a foul mood, but he couldn't help but smile as he thought about the socially useless ball of usually crazy energy that was sleeping on the sofa and the chance that, maybe, things would work out okay. But as a doctor, John knew that things usually had to get worse before they got better. Rubbing his forehead to dispel the thought, he hoped that he was wrong and headed off to bed, hoping that two hours sleep was going to do it before tomorrow.

* * *

_**A/N**__ I don't know how OOC Sherlock might have been in that chapter, he could have been, but I think it depends on how you see different aspects of Sherlock. For example, I thought that, in the BBC series, Sherlock did seem very wary of people, he even seemed to be cautious of getting close to John sometimes, like when he first met at the pool, I was sure that, for an instant, he actually believed that John was Moriarty, which I think was Sherlock's need to have proof that people are not heroes. I think he always wants something to be wrong with somebody so then he doesn't have to trust them, because I like to think that he doesn't like trusting people because he's frightened they might "break his heart" or get him hurt. But then when Moriarty did appear I think it just gave Sherlock more proof that John _is _someone that he can trust and I think that that was the moment he started trusting John completely and utterly (like he kept on looking to John for permission to threaten to shoot the bomb). Which I think is great because John is always trying to win his trust and it's something that is a great part of their relationship._

Something I also hoped to get across was how much Sherlock admires John, that he can like someone even without judging them. I think that the BBC series, I think, shows that Sherlock admires John almost as much as John admires Sherlock, if not more. E.g. In The Blind Banker when Sherlock saves John and Sarah at the end he says "John Watson is nothing like me" and even though the scripting made it sound at face value like Sherlock was just bigging himself up, I think that it was actually more of a compliment to John than anything, that Sherlock doesn't think he's a hero or anything, but John is because he's nothing like Sherlock. I think this is my fave thing about the BBC relationship, it's not in the books/films as much but I really do think that Sherlock Holmes admired John Watson. Dunno if anyone else got that or if it's just me watching the series far too many times (Ahhhh! Is there such a thing? Blasphemy!) 

_Sorry for like, the huge psycho-analysis here, I din't mean to rant on so much, but I just felt that it needed to be said to get it out there. If anyone disagrees/agrees or has another opinion on it or thinks Sherlock/John was OOC or not, feel free to put it up there in the reviews section, I don't mind if it's not a review (although reviews are very very helpful and much much much much loved! *Hint**Hint* Lol, think that was the biggest hint I've ever done on ) if you just want to say something about what you got from the bits I mentioned or what your take was on it 'cos I find that really interesting. I guess I'm a bit wierd like that. Also, I think I should start shortening these A/Ns :D Damn, I just like them so much :S Yeah, if these author notes are annoying you, put that in a review too and I'll cut 'em down. Like, a lot, or at least, I'll try. But if you like 'em as they are then, feel free to put that in there too. _

_Mycroft is arriving once again next chapter and he'll be staying a while methinks! Muhahaha! Okay, I'll shut up now. _


	11. Confrontation

_**A/N **__Sorry for the lateness of the hour folks, was watching the excellent The Walking Dead on channel 5 before posting (no that's not a plug, just an excuse :P) But if anyone else is watching (and actually reading this A/N, it's a good show so far, no?) Big news if you're following this fic (you awesome people you) the holidays have motivated me no end so hopefully if I have time, next week there should be two updates :) _

_For the reviewers/favouriters/alerters, thank you sooooooooooo much and also for everyone who responded to my A/N discussion, thanks for reading it (I know it was long) and you all made some awesome points! To LeDragonQuiMangeDuPoisson, since I can't respond directly: Thanks for the review and thanks for the constructive reviewing too, I can never quite pin the comma in speech rule so I will read up and try harder, so thanks for pointing it out! If any of my other grammar points are off, please feel free to tell me :) _

_P.S Just as a note, I do know emloha, she isn't just a stalker reviewer! :D Lol, nah, she's my mate, she's awesome. Oh, and Monika Watson, she's not a stalker either, we all know each other :P (Of course, Monika is actually the Watson to my Holmes so be nice to her :P and emloha is my fellow detective :D) So yeah, don't worry about calling the stalker police if they're giving me strange reviews :P Lol :) (I was prompted to put this warning on by emloha :D)_

_Disclaimer: Whilst watching The Walking Dead and channel flicking in the Batcave, chilling with ma flying monkeys (a rarity for me, I only ever watch TV if there's a particular show from a drama I like e.g. Sherlock, Merlin, Dr Who etc.) I saw the new Dr Who trailer and inspiration struck! In less than a week I will be able to steal the tardis and go back in time to steal the Sherlock idea from Arthur Conan Doyle himself! My evil plan is in progress! *Muhahaha* _

* * *

John picked up his keys and looked back into the living room, glancing at his watch. 8:45. He should have been gone by now, work started at 9:00 and catching a cab in London was hell on its own. But the thought of leaving Sherlock alone with his brother was not all too enticing for John as he was pretty sure he'd come home to discover either a dead Mycroft from the way Sherlock was looking murderously at his brother, or a very upset Sherlock by the looks of Mycroft's cold demeanour. John wasn't sure which was worse since Mycroft hadn't spoken a word since he had arrived and saw Sherlock sprawled out on the couch, eyes sunken and his face deathly paled. John expected Mycroft to have put some blame on him for not looking after him better but Mycroft said nothing. Merely sat down on the chair by the fireplace and looked at his brother in silence as Sherlock woke up, telling his brother to go away, despite allowing John to text him last night. But then, Sherlock would rather die than let his brother know that.

John sighed, knowing it was best to leave them to it and hope for the best but his instinctive protective instinct had kicked in, an instinct that he hadn't even realised he'd had until he'd met Sherlock. Rubbing his brow and trying not to think of the worst case scenario, he shoved his keys into his pocket and made for the door.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock said as he saw the movement and John knew for a fact that Sherlock knew absolutely where he was going. He was just hoping John might give in and take the day off work to make his brother leave him alone but unfortunately, John knew it was what Sherlock needed to do, to sort this mess out. And the only way to do that was via his brother.

Raising an eyebrow at Sherlock's attempt, he shook his head, denying Sherlock's silent plea to stay. He needed this. John knew that he didn't want it, but then, he never would. It was just something he needed to do. It was something John had been too cowardly to do with his sister and he wasn't going to let Sherlock do the same. He knew what it felt like.

"Work" he said, giving Sherlock a reassuring smile. Sherlock grimaced and folded his arms, leaning back into the sofa and fixing Mycroft with the most threatening death stare John had ever seen. Mycroft however was unmoved and John almost felt sorry for the empty look in Mycroft's eyes. It was as if nothing was behind them, just emptiness. No disappointment or anger or worry. Just the blank stare of someone who had been disappointed, who had beenhurtto many times. And that, John thought, was the worst look of all.

Leaving without another word, John just hoped that whatever he came home to, the pieces of both of their hearts that were left might just be a little easier to put back together.

* * *

There was silence in the flat when John left and for a long few moments, Sherlock poignantly ignored Mycroft's gaze, choosing instead to heave his laptop up onto his knees and type away at his website. Mycroft's gaze never wondered. It wasn't a stare, it was softer, but there was nothing in it, no anger, nothing at all and Sherlock could only remember all those times when he had cried in his room after something mother had said, or when father had left and although Mycroft had drawn him to him and held him close until he had fallen asleep, even though in the midst of all the craziness and the hurt he had promised his younger sibling that it'd be okay, that they'd be okay, Sherlock could always remember that cold detachment. The fact that no matter what he did, it was all just mimicry, an act to help Sherlock, because he didn't really _understand _the emotions he was supposed to be showing. Mycroft worried for him, yes, but there was always a wall, always something stopping him from showing it to his brother, _really _showing it. Sherlock typed harder to try and make himself forget the times his brother had comforted him.

Finally, Mycroft spoke, folding his legs as he did when he was talking seriously about something and Sherlock had to supress a sigh of annoyance. His brother had a knack for being able to annoy him with just one movement.

"You were out late last night according to John. You were lucky to have made it home," Mycroft said casually. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and glared at him.

"I was perfectly alright thank you Mycroft" Sherlock snarled and burrowed his head closer to the laptop screen to block out his brother. Mycroft sighed and put a hand to his forehead.

"7 per cent solution I imagine?" he said calmly and Sherlock didn't even look over as he nodded. Mycroft tutted and pulled out his phone, sending a quick text. Probably to put all of the drug dealers in London out of business just for working on the same night his brother was out; Sherlock thought bitterly and kept his eyes firmly on the screen.

"And I assume you had no consideration for the doctor or me when you decided that you'd simply go and destroy yourself, hmm? Was that not a thought? For the doctor at least, he really does try hard for you, you know. And yet, here you are again Sherlock" Mycroft said, his voice slow and calculating.

Sherlock's head turned sharply to glare at him. "That's none of your business what I was thinking at the time when it was you, Mycroft, that was the one that made me consider it in the first place. I never wanted my head cluttered with your 'problems' Mycroft, so next time, hide them a little better and I won't need to take any form of solution to slow them down" he spat and was disgruntled as Mycroft didn't even react. Sherlock wanted a reaction. He wanted Mycroft to snap, to say something he could use to make him go away. But Mycroft simply sat and observed him like he always did. If they called Sherlock inhuman, he always wanted them to meet his brother.

"Incorrect," Mycroft stated, "You always take them, regardless of my 'problems' I appear to be forcing on you Sherlock, and, if I may, I do believe them to be your problem as well. She is _our _mother"

Sherlock slammed his laptop shut and was up like a shot, crossing the room. Mycroft watched him stalk across the room.

"Running away again?" Mycroft taunted slowly and he ignored the pit of guilt he felt as the taunt reached Sherlock's ears. He needed a reaction, to make his younger brother say something to let him in and he'd ignore whatever he felt to get it.

"Perhaps it's a hint that you should _go away Mycroft_" Sherlock snarled and he opened the door to his bedroom, slamming it closed behind him. Mycroft shook his head. _Always so melodramatic, _he thought as he stood up, straightening his suit before he followed Sherlock, shaking his head softly.

* * *

John Watson dug his fingernails into the plastic clipboard, trying to control his temper. Mrs Holmes was still in the hospital obviously, still his patient, still talking sweetly to him as if yesterday had merely been a dream. Except everything she said was another question…about Sherlock.

"So… he lives with you does he?" she asked and John nodded tightly, looking at faxes he'd been sent from the lab. _Blood test results to be faxed to you within two days. _He tried to focus on marking the calendar on the wall with the results dates but he could feel what was about to happen even before it did. The air was tight with anticipation, as if the woman was waiting for the right moment to say something and John was just waiting for it. And finally, she said it.

"What's he like to live with then, my… _son" _she asked and John turned at the venomous use of 'son'. It was if the word would have bitten her if she didn't spit it out soon enough and it made John's stomach churn to hear it.

"Never bored" he muttered in response and Mrs Holmes suddenly looked as if she was a lion who had spotted fresh prey.

She smiled and John knew what she was going to say. It was going to be something horrible, he knew, and he didn't want to hear it, not ever. Not about Sherlock, not when this woman was supposed to be a mother, the one person that was _supposed_ to care about him no matter what.

"I see… I imagine he isn't boring," she said and John tensed to hear the words. "I imagine he's quite a… handful. Does he get sick often?" John didn't answer but apparently he didn't need to.

"He used to. Such a sickly child. And the diseases he'd pass onto me. Vile thing used to do it on purpose I think. I'm surprised he found someone to put up with him" she hissed and John was about to interject, outraged, but she continued, "You should leave him alone Dr Watson. He doesn't want people. He doesn't _deserve _people. No-one… like _that _does. Something like him doesn't deserve love or care Dr Watson. They should be locked away. They should simply cease to exist, no?"

And then, she laughed. It was a giggle, as if what she had said was like a well-told joke that everyone laughed at. "I bet it's so horrible, to share a flat with that thing. To even breathe the same _air _as him, it disgusts you, does it not? Beasts like that shouldn't even be allowed near people like us, don't you think doctor?" And again, that giggle. And that expectancy. As if it was the most obvious thing in the world to agree with such a statement, like when Sherlock deduced something and it was so obvious to him, but not to others and he could never for the life of him understand why not. But this woman wasn't like Sherlock. She was nothing like him. Sherlock Holmes with his life and his energy and the fact that he was, no matter what he said, a good person. This woman, this person, was nothing like him. And John had had enough.

Striding across to the side of the bed, his face dark, he stood, blood boiling by the bedside, unable to control himself. He admitted to sometimes having a temper, but this was something different. "Listen to me" he hissed, "I don't care if I'm a doctor or whatever to you, but you are not _half _the person he is. Youare the one who shouldn't be allowed near anyone, and especially never him. You know, you're right. He doesn't deserve you as a mother. No-one does. He deserves so. Much. Better" John knew he could sacked for this, but at that moment, he didn't care, it was as if someone had struck him, he was so goddamn _angry. _He didn't know how she could even say something like that about her own son_. _

"And," he continued, "He deserves so much more than you ever will. What you have done to him… how you live with yourself after that… and then you have the _nerve _to say he doesn't deserve _you_? He's more brilliant than you could ever even see and I can see it after what? A few months of living with him? You, you're the disgusting one".

Mrs Holmes was silent for a moment and then, inexplicably, a grin crept across her face. "How sweet" she grinned, "The creature has a little defender to protect him. He always was too weak to defend himself. I'm amazed someone as assumedly respectable like you would assort with things like him". John felt his temper rise and he had never wanted to say more to a person in his life. He knew they'd get him sacked but he was shaking with barely contained fury and Mrs Holmes was smiling as if it was the most entertaining thing she'd ever seen.

"I'm glad you never see him," John spat, "I'm glad you will never see how amazing he is. You don't have the right to see that". And with that, foregoing his clipboard to the desk, he stormed from the room, the door swinging closed and leaving Mrs Holmes laughing as he stalked from the hospital.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes had never been so frustrated. Being trapped in a room with his brother was just about as bad as things could get in his opinion and he scowled as Mycroft sat in the chair opposite from the bed he was slouched upon.

"Get lost Mycroft," he scowled and Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"How eloquent". Sherlock gave another glare and Mycroft gave a soft smile.

"Do you realise what cocaine does to your brain?" Mycroft asked almost casually.

"It helps"

"Really? I doubt that"

"I'm sure you do," Sherlock sighed and looked across at his brother, analysing him. "What do you want Mycroft?" he said and Mycroft leaned forwards.

"I want you to stop taking drugs Sherlock" Mycroft said evenly. Sherlock snorted. That wasn't happening any time soon. It ashamed him in front of John yes, but he wouldn't stop taking them for Mycroft. Never.

"Don't make me use that old drugs charge against you Sherlock" Mycroft said and Sherlock gave a snarl.

"Try it," he growled "Might as well. Do you enjoy keeping me on a leash Mycroft? Threatening me with charges, does it make you feel in control?"

Mycroft stiffened. "That is not what I do Sherlock, I try to keep you from getting hurt and you-"

"Oh! So _that _was what it was, was it? Mother would hurt poor old Sherlock, so keep her out of sight? Well that backfired didn't it Mycroft? Are you happy now? I've been put back in my place; does _that _make you feel better?" Sherlock interrupted, the words spat from him like bullets. Suddenly, Mycroft stood up and Sherlock narrowed his eyes, looking across the room at his brother, staring him out.

"You know that is not true," Mycroft said slowly and Sherlock felt himself twitch in annoyance. No reaction, as ever. Just this.

"We don't have _places _Sherlock. It's just us. And what we choose to do" Mycroft said softly and Sherlock knew he'd hit a chord. Status had always been a problem of Mycroft's.

"Well, as long as you've chosen the right thing, that's fine. It doesn't matter when you lie or cheat me. As long as you have your status and your rules and your so-called decorum that's all that matters" Sherlock spat, his voice assuming the tone that was almost observational and Mycroft seemed to straighten his back a little, encouraging Sherlock to continue.

He was hitting nerves here, he was pushing and any moment now he'd find something to make him react, to make him leave.

"You don't care about me getting hurt. You just don't want to get blamed when people break. You'd lock me in a room with her if it meant you could say you 'tried to sort things out'. It's all you care about and you can't even deny that! You'd do anything to stay on top and if that means being mother's puppet then you'll do it, whether it affects me or not" Sherlock said, triumph in his voice as Mycroft's hands clenched angrily but his voice was still calm when he spoke.

"You know that isn't true"

"You know what Mycroft? She's right. I'm no good, okay? You want me to admit that? You want me to tell you how filthy, how diseased I am just to be around? How my own mother, our mother, is sick just to lay eyes on me? You can't stop it. You can't make this better and you can't stand that. Not being in control, you _hate _it" Sherlock said and he felt a wave of triumph as something flickered in his brother's eyes. Remorse. Sherlock stopped dead.

Mycroft looked at his brother, his eyes dead and lifeless as the words met his ears.

"You know what I hate?" Mycroft said softly, his voice even and unwavering, "That I couldn't stop you saying that. All this time I've supposed to be looking after you and… I wasn't good enough. To make her stop saying those… lies to you. To stop you believing them. I wasn't good enough to do that and I… I am sorry…Sherlock".

Sherlock blinked and swallowed a little as he saw the truth flicker in Mycroft's dulled eyes and he had to swallow again as he realised. He had wanted a reaction, but now he had it… he wanted to take it back and that was something he had hardly ever wanted to do. But it was as if his brother had just lost something and Sherlock saw it go. He knew that, for what wasn't the first time, he had gone too far. He was about to speak when Mycroft's phone buzzed and he watched as his brother looked at the message and smiled.

"The evil plan falling together well enough?" Sherlock said, referring to the text no doubt containing some sort of government secret Mycroft had just received. Mycroft gave a tight smile. Taunting, as if nothing had been said, but Mycroft shook his head.

"My assistant tells me," Mycroft said, "that Dr Watson has just had a rather…interesting conversation with mother" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"What do you mean?"

Mycroft smiled. "He really does seem to be a good influence on you Sherlock. He seems better at it than I am in fact… I'm glad. He's put his neck on the line for you". Sherlock looked confused, but said nothing.

"You should apologise to him properly" Mycroft said and Sherlock scowled.

"And you'd know all about _that _wouldn't you Mycroft?" Sherlock snarled, making Mycroft's face fall.

"Goodbye Sherlock, I'll see you again shortly" Mycroft said, turning to leave. Sherlock stared at the back of his brother's head as he opened the door. Turning around, Mycroft addressed him again, eyes saddened once more.

"One day Sherlock, you'll push too hard and something…something will break. I can only hope you'll find someone who won't. But, Sherlock," Mycroft said, "One day you might realise that you don't always have to push something until it breaks… only to know if it comes back. And I think we both know that both I and Dr Watson, whether you like it or not, will come back anyway. Me, because I'm your brother and I swore to look after you, and John? Well, I think the evidence is right here".

Mycroft pressed a button on his phone and Sherlock's phone buzzed in his pocket.

"You're not alone, Sherlock. I know I don't always openly disagree with mother, but everything she ever said about you is wrong Sherlock. And Dr Watson is proof of that" Mycroft said and with a nod, he turned to leave. He could only hope he was right. He was putting a lot of faith in Sherlock, but whatever he did next, he knew Sherlock was smart enough to figure it out.

* * *

Sherlock glanced at the message on his phone. _Transcript: Conversation- Dr John Watson and Mrs Angela Holmes _

_Ah, _Sherlock thought, _they even have bugs in hospital rooms. _It was almost laughable. Scrolling down, he read the script. And hoped to God that John wouldn't come home. Because he hoped to God nobody could see him shaking in abject fear as his mother's words spoke to him as if she was in the room. But mostly because it was as if something had just changed the entire world around him. Someone had defended him, said he wasn't nothing, wasn't useless. Somebody had _cared._

Running a hand through his hair, he leant back and sighed, trying to comprehend how one could go about reprogramming all those years of thoughts and wished, for once, that deleting things really was as easy as he made out.

* * *

_**A/N **__Sorry if the ending isn't great :S 2:44am is enough to put anyone into a fanfic induced comatose state. Hopefully updates soon!_

_P.S So sorry this was posted like, three times, kinda/sorta, but apparently hates my linebreaks, it's deleted them twice now :( I had to re-add them :P_


	12. Distress

_**A/N:**__What is this? An update? On a Thursday early morn? What strangeness is this? Never fear, lol :) I've kept my promise for 2 updates this week, you'll be receiving my customary update on Sunday as ever :) I'm celebrating the school holidays with Fanfiction :) (Omg, Fanfiction is now autocorrected on my computer. It's reached obsession stage :D)_

_Thanks for reviews/favourites/alerts and to anyone and everyone reading! You guys make the rainbows shine, the bunnies fluffy and the Fanfiction keep on rollin'! So thanks for making the world so awesome with thy presence :)_

_**Disclaimer:**__ The drawing board is filled with checklists: -Tardis plans = check. –Flying monkeys = check. –Telepathic helmet device = check. Mission Steal Sherlock ahead. I have no conscience, I simply need Sherlock :) _

* * *

"So, what did Mycroft say?" John asked the next morning. For some reason Sherlock had seemed to have been avoiding him last night, mostly staying in his room ever since John got home and knocked on the bedroom door to announce that he was home. Sherlock had said something about not being hungry or something and John had frowned but decided it was best to leave him to it, especially since he was exhausted too. The day had been a little more than eventful and storming from the hospital hadn't helped, even if the next day was only going to be a half day anyway. So he'd gone to bed pretty early after a decidedly lonely night watching TV in which he had to admit, he missed the sound of his flatmate's confident talking, even if it was only for a night.

Sherlock looked up from his paper by the kitchen table where he had been looking at what he said was "another attack by the killer he was after". John imagined that Lestruade hadn't even linked the two murders together, much less talk to Sherlock about it, so no doubt Sherlock would be going to Scotland Yard sometime today to gloat about finding it, calling the police idiots as usual and comparing their IQ's to various forms of rodents. John didn't like to think of the disruption in Scotland Yard after another one of Sherlock's visits, he could bet it was chaos.

"He told me to stop taking drugs," Sherlock said, "Just like you did. However I said no to him"

"And not to me?" John asked, "You do it to aggravate him, don't you?"

"But of course".

John sighed. _But of course_. But of course, as always with Sherlock, things were never quite so straightforward.

"And?"

"And what?" Sherlock asked. John sighed again, beginning to think he'd taken to doing that a lot since meeting Sherlock. And not without cause either. This man was probably the reason he'd be finding grey hairs on his head in a year or so.

"Did he say anything else?"

"Not much. Are you free this afternoon?" Sherlock asked. John raised an eyebrow. Evasion. One of Sherlock Holmes' many talents. He waited a moment as Sherlock seemed to be pretending to ignore him, suddenly finding his paper deeply engrossing.

"Sherlock, listen to me. This is your brother. He was doing it to protect you, like I was and-"

"So simply because I forgive you, I should forgive him? Forgive me John but I do think his motives were a little different. He just didn't want the difficulty" Sherlock scowled. _And I am the definition of difficulty for Mycroft _he thought, _I am just another problem for him to sort... as usual. _

"Did he say that?" John said and Sherlock gave him the look he reserved for when people were being especially stupid.

"No" he said simply and John rolled his eyes, lifting his arms in defeat at Sherlock's answer, though for what reason Sherlock still had to find out.

"You're impossible! If he said it you wouldn't believe him! Sherlock, for heaven's sake, you can't just ignore him!"  
"It's been working fine so far" Sherlock stated blandly. John scoffed.

"Really? So, this is normal right? Sherlock, look at me," John said.

Sherlock looked up and met his eyes, and John saw the little clever spark jump in Sherlock's quick blue eyes as he appeared to deduce what John was about to say, so John just gave a sigh before turning away to wash up his plates. He heard a rustle of paper behind him and he heard Sherlock shift to sit, feeling the detective watching him carefully.

"You never speak to Harry anymore, do you?" Sherlock asked suddenly and John stopped, turning slowly to look at him. Sherlock was looking at him intently and John shook his head slowly.

"Not often. Which is why, Sherlock, you _need _to do something. For both of you. I know… I know it's not like you not to say anything to him when he visits. I don't think it was just him that's offended you" John said slowly, the words seeming to echo and die, bouncing off the walls of the kitchen

Sherlock said nothing for a while and the walls seemed to hold the words to themselves. Sherlock shivered as he remembered the walls of the old house… the one mother used to live in… father's old house…

"Sherlock? You okay?" John asked suddenly and the walls suddenly let go of the words, bouncing them back around the room, shaking Sherlock out of his short trance and he looked up at John, the clever light dying in his eyes.

"I told him he didn't care, that he was mother's…puppet" Sherlock whispered and John almost felt like covering his ears as if the words weren't meant for him to hear. They were just words, more for Sherlock than anyone else. But then Sherlock blinked and shook himself and John looked down, remembering when he'd last spoken to Harry in person. He'd said something similar, that she didn't care. And now they hardly ever spoke.

"It's hard Sherlock, I know… but sometimes you have to take back what you've said or… or you'll never say anything ever again"

Sherlock didn't move but after a few moments he looked up. "You think I should apologise?" he said. John gave him a look that Sherlock knew was a yes. And he hated it.

"Why?" he said suddenly, "When it's _him _that lied to _me_? And I have to apologise?"

"He came to apologise to you! Sherlock, you have to at least try and-"

"He came to make sure he doesn't have to clean up my mess if I'm arrested for drug use, he came to make sure it doesn't look bad on him!" Sherlock growled and John's featured softened suddenly as if suddenly taken by pity. And pity was the only emotion Sherlock couldn't deal with right now.

"You know that's not true" John said simply and with 5 words, the air diffused and Sherlock let out the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.

"I don't care" he muttered and for the first time ever, Sherlock Holmes wasn't sure what he meant. He didn't care if it was true. He didn't care if it was a lie. And for everything he was worth, he didn't want to care about Mycroft.

John nodded.

"I'm still not going to apologise" Sherlock growled and John smiled.

"It's a start" he said, "You having breakfast?" Sherlock gave a slight grin at the question but shook his head.

"Case" he said simply, picking up the newspaper again and he allowed himself to swallow down the nervousness that had built up as John put a cup of tea down on the table for him anyway. He could still feel the plaster of the walls watching him and he shuddered once more. It was a stupid thing to think, but the pressure eased as John began to talk about something on TV later that they could record and Sherlock's mind slipped back to what Mycroft had said. _We both know that both I and Dr Watson, whether you like it or not, will come back anyway. _Sherlock felt the pressure around him ease more and he shifted as if suddenly free to move and he scolded himself for the silly thought that crossed his mind. _I bet you look like a bird moving about like this, _he thought, _Heaven knows, it looks like you're stretching your wings out like the Baker Street pigeons do on the roofs sometimes before they fly. _He frowned at the thought, it was highly illogical. But somehow appropriate.  
"_You should apologise to him properly"._

Sherlock's head snapped up at the memory of what his brother had said. _"He's put his neck on the line for you". _Sighing, Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, glancing to where John was looking worriedly over at him. "What?" he asked and John suddenly realised how worried he must have looked…and how much he'd been staring.

"Oh, um… you just… are you okay?" John said and Sherlock smiled, something that took John by surprise.

"Do stop clucking Mother Hen," Sherlock said and flicked a page over in his newspaper. John stared for a moment.

"I don't think I was entirely fair, blaming you for mother" Sherlock said and John nearly dropped his tea in surprise.

"Sorry?"

"Mother. I… misunderstood your motives. I'm… sorry" Sherlock said, fumbling, very un-Sherlock-like, for the last word. There was a moment of stunned silence and then John laughed.

Sherlock saw the chuckle grow into a small laugh and he raised a questioning glance.

"Not everything's a murder investigation Sherlock."  
"What do you mean?"

"Well, it's okay, if someone gets something wrong. I got it wrong and you reacted and… that… that was good" John said and Sherlock's perplexed look didn't change. John rolled his eyes, "It's what normal people do in their normal lives Sherlock. We make mistakes… and that's how we learn not to hurt people. It's a normal thing to do". Sherlock frowned.

"Sounds a very roundabout way to do it" he mumbled and John smiled.

"Yeah, it is really". He gave a soft chuckle, the sound making Sherlock grin. He somehow felt better and the walls were no longer staring, as if things were suddenly less interesting for them.

Sherlock looked up when John's phone rang.

"Hello?" There was a short pause as someone was speaking to John down the phone. _Judging by the way John seems to stand straighter, a soldier's habit of standing to attention during drills, it's safe to assume the hospital is calling him. _Sherlock's mind began deducing and he continued to watch him carefully.

"Sorry? No, no I understand. Give them 100mg Doxapram stat, I'll be there in ten minutes, keep them as stable as you can" John hung up and ran across to the hooks by the door, grabbing his coat

Sherlock's heart dropped.

"Sherlock, I'm so sorry. I…I can't explain right now. I will, I promise, but there's an emergency. I need to go right now or we'll lose a patient. I'll be back by this afternoon I promise" John gushed and Sherlock nodded numbly. _A patient. _

"I'll be back in a few hours!" John cried and the door slammed as he ran out. Something juddered to a halt in Sherlock's mind and he felt the walls begin to laugh at him as it came crashing down.

_Mother._

* * *

John ran to the roadside, hailing a cab the fastest he'd ever managed. Severe respiratory distress they'd said, they were trying to stabilise her. _But if they can't_, John thought, _then she'll die._

But John knew it wasn't her life he was rushing to save, but the life of the detective that he'd left a moment ago. Because, whether he hated her or not, John knew beyond doubt that if she died, something would change in his best friend, and he had no clue if it'd be for better or worse. And he needed time to figure that out. Because if he got it wrong, then everything would fall apart. And John wasn't sure if he'd be able to put Sherlock back together again.

* * *

_**A/N **__Okay, so more of a cliffhanger this time :) Things'd definitely change no matter what happens, what is a young Watson to do? But of course, as we all know, no matter what they're like, a mother is a mother and of course, we all know the impact of something happening to them is huge, but on which side of the scale is unknown till it happens. And of course, we don't just have the one son to worry about.  
__  
Felt this chapter was a bit of a transition chapter, a bit of a filler to go from bad to worse, so, sorry that it's short-ish (short-er than my others :P), but it needed to be done. And it's just OMG, Drama! *Presses drama button*  
__  
Sorry if the bird metaphor was cheesy :P It was going to be cheesier, but I edited it… a lot *Blushes*. _

_And finally to LeDragonQuiMangeDuPoisson, sorry my update is early, I know you're only on FF Sundays (If I've read your profile page right, or else I'm just talking gibberish :P) But there's another coming on Sunday night so there might be two chapters on here by the time you log in? And also, keep going, nearly there! Wish I had the willpower to give up fanfic for Lent :S But my obsession is huge and my willpower small :P But you're doing awesome!_


	13. Breathe

_**A/N **__Guess this is more Monday now than Sunday but oh well :) Walking Dead distracting me _again. _Finally battled the procastranation :D Here it is chaps :)_

_To all my wonderful reviewers/alerters/favouriters,thanks for all your kind words and actions and I think you guys made the sun shine here in rainy old England this week!_

_**Disclaimer:**__ Never try to fool Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. A little known fact about him is that that man is a ninja. And he is also a genius. Who rewired my telepathic helmet. He had the mercy to leave my knowledge of Sherlock Holmes in there however I have no recollection of my age, name or shoe size. Or worse still, where I left the keys to the Tardis. Reporting to you via the world's first ever computer isn't easy. is hard to reach when it's so far into the future… I need help :( _

* * *

She had stabilised over an hour ago and Doctor John Watson could think of far better things to be doing with his time than filling out the paperwork for it. Like going back to the flat to the detective whose mother had just been intubated in order to help her breathe. John could think of far better things and yet here he was, filling out the fourth sheet of paper on what drugs they'd given her, despite the fact that he had filled it out on the past three sheets, with detail.

Sighing, he put the pen down and leaned back, checking his phone, which was, again, worryingly silent. Sherlock hadn't called him once since he'd dashed off to the hospital over two hours ago. It had taken over an hour to get Mrs Holmes stable, if "stable" was the word to use, and Sherlock hadn't texted once, and that fact was perhaps the most worrying. Picking up his papers again, John decided he could endure a few more pointless protocol sheets if it got him home. Picking up his pen, he began to write, al the while praying that the reason his phone still hadn't rang was because Sherlock was busy with something non-destructive. But then, when was anything Sherlock did safe?

* * *

Sherlock sat numbly on the arm of the chair, precariously perched with the laptop drawn to his knees, staring without recognition at the private email.

_Mummy is very ill. You should visit. John is there, I'll be there in 1 hour. __MH. _

Sherlock growled at the computer screen and slammed it shut, almost toppling from his perch on the armchair. _Damn Mycroft, _he thought, but he stopped the thought as it seemed to echo in his mind. It was as if there was such a silence in the room that you could hear this thoughts bouncing off every surface. Upending the laptop from his knees on the pillow beside him, he got up, flopping off the side of the armchair and heading to land heavily on the sofa, lying face down with a whoosh of air.

He felt like calling down to Mrs Hudson but he was quite certain that there would be no reply. So he called anyway. He needed a distraction. No reply. The sofa muffled his groan of frustration and he rolled over. He needed a distraction…and soon. His case was now just a case of waiting for Lestraude to agree with him and get his men together. _Always the worst part of a case, _Sherlock thought glumly. Always so boring. He'd even go as far to say that he'd suffer some company if it meant getting rid of this dreadful boredom… and _those _thoughts.

He'd been thinking them ever since John had left, but he had tried to convince himself that they were just a product of boredom, that it had nothing to do with the fact that John had left to go treat mother. Just a case of boredom, he told himself_._ The same thing he'd been telling himself ever since he'd started remembering snatches of things in his head when he had nothing else to think about after John had left. And there had been a lot of those moments.

_Filth never catch their own germs do they? _Sherlock shot up from his place on the sofa, sitting up so fast that his head span nauseatingly for a moment. _Don't sit up too fast or you'll get dizzy, _said a remarkably John sounding voice in his head. He snarled, tossing himself back down, putting a pillow over his head, snarling all the while as if to drive out the thought.

"Stop it," he muttered, more to himself than anything. He didn't want to think about her. Why weren't the thoughts just deleting themselves?

_You can't just delete everything Sherlock, _said the John-voice in his head again.

"Shut up" Sherlock snarled. The advice giving ceased, leaving Sherlock not only alone in his thoughts, but lonely too. Something that he very rarely experienced. Rolling his eyes, he put it down to boredom, but he couldn't help but think how much he'd prefer it if he was bored while someone else was around. John. Sherlock would even go as far to say he'd talk to Lestraude or Mrs Hudson or even _Mycroft, _but he'd rather work an entire case with Anderson than admit it. He heard his phone buzz again and didn't even bother to look. It was most certainly John, he'd been texting every 15 minutes for the past hour and a half and despite his boredom, he'd prefer to keep his charade of business up for a few more minutes at least. He didn't want to make it seem like he was moping around after hearing about mother.

However, that _was _what he was doing. He was laid on the sofa, feeling like he hadn't felt in years. That was practically a definition of moping, wasn't it? _Useless, _echoed his mind, mother's voice filtering in and he gave a frustrated grunt, pulling the pillow in tighter. _I am not moping and I am most certainly not useless, _he thought, the words grating themselves in his mind. _Oh but you are, you can't even face your own mother. You're useless. Worthless. _Sherlock shook his head. Damn 7 per cent solution. He knew it was impossible for it still to be in his system, but that didn't stop him blaming his thoughts on the cocaine. His phone beeped again.

"Fine!" he spat, getting up, surprising himself that he actually travelled more than two steps to get his mobile and flipping it open.

_Did you get my email? Mother is sick. MH. _

Sherlock growled. He decided texting back would only welcome more texts and was about to put it down when it went again.

_Am going to be later than I thought, stuck with paperwork. Are you okay? Text me back. Do not forget to eat. JW. _

Sherlock grunted in annoyance but couldn't help but feel a smile develop. _JW. _He'd got John onto putting initials onto texts now. Apparently he was a "bad influence" according to John.

Sherlock looked at the text, and then the previous one before glancing back around the decidedly empty, boring room. The room that had already tempted him once with the idea of another vial of solution, which he had tried very hard to shrug off. It was; however, much more difficult now than it was an hour ago. _I need to work on my case, _Sherlock thought. He looked around at the empty furniture again. _And I need to get out of here. _

Grabbing his coat and scarf, Sherlock ran down the stairs, hailing a cab as soon as he got out.

"Where to?" the cabbie said, and Sherlock first made very sure that the cabbie was in fact trustworthy, and not a possible serial killer. His escapade with the sponsored cabbie had developed the deduction of cab drivers into a habit.

"Where do you want to go?" The cab driver said again and Sherlock blinked. He knew where he had to go. But he didn't want to go. _John is there. _That was what Mycroft's email had said. Sherlock's thoughts went sour to think that his older brother had been deducing his lonely (_Bored, Sherlock, bored,_ he mentally berated himself) thoughts. _Ask for John at the desk, get him to come to Scotland yard with you. Then you can go on your case. Nothing difficult. You won't even have to see…her. _Sherlock didn't like the sound of the plan, never mind the idea of carrying it out. Scowling, he sat lower in the leather seating.

"St. Bartholomew's Hospital please"

* * *

"Excuse me, can I help you?" Sherlock turned round, the woman at the reception desk looking at him kindly. He'd been observing the map for the hospital, wondering if it was better to go to John's office or not, but there was very little detail on the map.

"Mr Holmes!" The receptionist exclaimed, recognising him from his earlier visits to see John, "Are you looking for John?"

"Sorry? Oh, yes, is he, um, treating a patient or…"

"No, he had a…" The receptionist suddenly gasped and looked up with wide eyes, "My goodness, I'm sorry! I didn't… is she a relative, or?" Sherlock cringed.

"Mother… but, we don't… talk anymore, we… Ahem… is John in his office then?"

"Yeah, do you want me to buzz him?"  
Sherlock nodded and waited as she called his office. Sherlock heard John's worried tone from where he was stood a few paces away.

"He'll be here in a moment" she said, "He sounded worried you know, are you two, well, you know-"

Sherlock nearly laughed but settled on raising an eyebrow.

"No, we're not together" he said, shaking his head. The amount of people who'd begun asking him that since John had moved in had been absurd.

"Oh, right," The receptionist blushed. Her name was Laura from what Sherlock could remember, but he quickly corrected himself when he spotted the name tag pinned to her. _Lizzy, _Sherlock thought, _must have deleted that. _

"So, um… you're not here to see her then? She's stable, she had a mild-"

"Respiratory distress" Sherlock said bluntly. He'd immediately checked the drug that John had mentioned online once he'd left. It hadn't sounded good. Lizzy blushed even more.

"Oh, John said so? I didn't mean to intrude, I just thought… Your brother I think was here a few days ago"

"Brother, yes, Mycroft" Sherlock said. He just wanted her to stop talking now, but John would be here soon. Any minute now.

All of this talk about family was making him feel uncomfortable, a feeling he was uncomfortable having in the first place. And it was making him jumpy. He knew what she was trying to do. He bet that she'd had hundreds of people requesting to see family members, he could deduce easily that she'd be doing her best to make things "happy families" for everyone. But then, there was no point making people into heroes. Heroes didn't exist.

"Well, I am very sorry, she's very ill," Lizzy said, as if that'd make Sherlock leap over the reception desk and find mother's room himself. Sherlock flinched, memory flooding him. Mother was sick again. _Do you know why I am so thin Sherlock?_ Sherlock froze still as his mind replayed it. _It's because of you. _

"I know" Sherlock said, his voice almost tripping over the words.

"Is your brother staying with you? John hasn't mentioned him" Lizzy said and Sherlock realized she wasn't just trying to fix him up but he was apparently the topic of hot gossip.

"No" Sherlock ground out, looking around. John would be here any minute. Any minute now.

"He's a lot different from you. All the nurses have commented on you, you know" Lizz said and she blushed.

Sherlock contained a roll of his eyes, realising his mistake. She was _flirting _with him. Trying to make conversation to get close. Gossip was definitely a good deduction, it sounded like Molly all over again. He couldn't understand why everyone seemed to attract themselves to him. Attracted to _him. _He froze again as memories kicked in and he suddenly felt sick. _You will never be loved. Never be cared for._

"Did you get your looks from your father then? You're very different to your mother"

_Even have his face, filthy, ugly, __repugnant __little creature he was. You're his spitting image._

"Hey, are you okay? You look pasty"

_To think I was given this child. You are a __disease. __A worthless, useless contaminant. _

"Mr Holmes?"

_Holmes!_

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock's head snapped up and there he was, John Watson, coming down the corridor at a speed-walk, concern masking his face. Sherlock could feel his breath coming out in ragged bursts, he felt sick and _oh God, she was right. _

"Sherlock?" John was next to him and Sherlock jumped when he placed a hand on his back.

"Sherlock, are you okay? Sherlock?" John looked even more worried now and Sherlock wanted to snap out of it, tell him he was fine and that they had a case to attend to, but it felt like something cold was clutching onto his heart. _Weak. Useless. Worthless. Nothing._ Sherlock shook his head.

"What happened?" John was saying.

"Nothing, I was just talking and then he started hyperventilating! I thought he was sick or something!" Lizzy explained but John was hardly listening, looking at Sherlock's eyes closely. Sherlock wanted to pull away, tell him that, no, he wasn't on drugs, he wasn't ill but all he could think of was mother's voice. _Filth never catch their own germs do they?_

"We're leaving" John said.  
Sherlock was breathing hard as they turned, John's hand on his back to guide him. _And why is that Holmes? Why will no one ever come to save you? _Sherlock shuddered and it felt as if the world had come back to itself.

"Don't touch me" he whispered. John didn't hear, he was too busy trying to calm him down, talking about nonsense just to make him listen. Sherlock moved away.

"John, don't. Don't touch me"

"Sherlock?"

"I… I'm contaminated. I need to go home… I need… I need to get clean…"

"Sherlock, I-" John began but then the winter sunlight hit them as they stepped outside.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't stop, and John had to keep him in his sight as he stood still to see who it was and had to contain a sigh as he spotted Mycroft.

"Sherlock?" The older brother called. He had yet to notice the state his brother was in. "Sherlock, I apologise for telling you about mother, but I had to. I have apologised profusely, I really am-"

"I understand. Forget about it"

And that was all Sherlock could say before he near collapsed, John jumping to catch him immediately.

"Damn it. Sherlock, calm down, you're making yourself dizzy, just slow down your breathing!"

"Sherlock?" Mycroft said, concern showing evidently on his face as he moved to help John.

"Mycroft, it's better to see if you can go see… you know. He… needs space, I'm sorry, but as a doctor, I need to get him home." John said, teeth gritted as he strained to help Sherlock stand. He'd never seen Sherlock so affected by anything. He knew that withdrawal from drugs would be kicking in around now and he knew it made a person jumpy. And mixed with the stress of today, he was surprised Sherlock hadn't already collapsed.

Mycroft nodded, understanding and headed into the building just as a cab pulled up, John hailing it as fast as he could. John could only hope that he could calm him down before he got any worse.

* * *

"Sherlock, calm down, just breathe!" John instructed.

"Where to?" The cabbie called back

"221B Baker street"

Rubbing circles into Sherlock's back he kept his eyes fixed on Sherlock's, giving him a point of reference to look at.

"Calm down, come on buddy, calm down," John coaxed, trying to talk as low as he could. He didn't want the cab driver interfering and making things worse.

"Come on, it's okay". Sherlock looked up and his eyes fixed on John's and suddenly, a memory of his seven year old self came to him. _I-I'm not worthless. _He'd stood up to her then. Why was now any different? _There will never be anyone who __will want __to save you Holmes_

Sherlock shook his head. It couldn't be true. It wasn't…was it?

"Sherlock, listen to me, it's okay, we're gunna get you home and then Mrs Hudson will put on a pot of tea and then we can just chill out, you and me right? You listening?" John mumbled. Sherlock wondered if it was just comforting nonsense, but the words echoed. _Home. _Just him and John watching TV like nothing ever happened. He could forget about this. About her.

Sherlock nodded and space seemed to open up. Someone…someone did care, right? John. And Mrs Hudson who said she wasn't his housekeeper but sure acted like one. And, maybe even Lestraude who needed him, God help him. And… and… maybe, just maybe Mycroft too. Who worried about him constantly. Sherlock took a breath. John had said it, he'd told mother. _He deserves so. Much. Better. _Surely, surely there was something in that? Something… truthful?

Nodding again, he settled into his seat, something John had said echoing round his head like it was inside an empty house. _I'm glad you will never see how amazing he is_

* * *

_**A/N **__Was going to follow Mycroft into the hospital but I thought we'd leave that till next time. Thanks for your patience good readers, I know I suck at updating sometimes :) (I can be a pain I know :S)_


	14. Rebellion

_**A/N **__Hey guys! Sorry this chapter is later than the norm, but English homework, what can you do? *Sighs* It was really starting to annoy (Sorry, National Treasure quote, too good to resist, sorry to anyone who hasn't seen it. Read: If you do get the chance, do see it, it's awesome :D) Also, I've been addicted to Life lately (haha, not that life isn't awesome, I don't write traumatising fics like this 'cos I'm sad, never fear :D I write 'em since I have a sadistic mind :P Do fear that though :D) But yeah, I mean the programme, it got cancelled on NBC a while back, does anyone remember it? It was a great series, but just didn't get the ratings so ended at like, season 2. Shame really. I just bought the box set. If anyone gets the chance to watch that too, then it really is a fantastic series :) Anyway, this is really off track now. Where was I? I don't remember :P  
At least this gives us some May Day reading. However, May Day is half over with it being like 1:00 in the afternoon and all. And, how many people get May Day off school/work? I do, but I don't knwo about anyone else :S Lol, I'm so selfish_

_Anyhows, to all the reviewers/alerters/favouriters: Sorry this is late-ish, thanks so much for your time and effort my good friends and I hope sunshine __stalks__ follows you wherever you go! _

**Disclaimer:**_ The flying monkeys have saved me! They informed Steven Moffat of my predicament. He laughed and said "Serves her right for trying to steal Sherlock". Fortunately he needed his Tardis back for the filming of the next season of Doctor who. So I'm back, thankfully. With still no recollection of whom I am or why I keep my favourite films in genre order and the rest in alphabetical. Seeking help._ _Thanks to everyone who put forwards all their ideas and condolences last time, you guys are just too awesome :D_

* * *

"Mother"

Mrs Holmes looked up at her eldest son, her eyes meeting his as he appraised her, his eyes darker than she had seen them in a long time. If she had been close enough, she would have sworn blind that there would have been a lightning storm crackling behind them. In fact the entire room crackled in a way the woman recognised. It was that pointless anger that came along whenever that _child _got hurt, whenever she told it the truth. She couldn't really understand why he got so angry over it.

"You're late," she said simply, "it's disrespectful". Mycroft's expression didn't change.

"Yes, well, I had things to deal with" Mycroft said. Mrs Holmes snarled at how he'd said "deal with". As if he was more important than her, as if he was so significant to _anyone. _Mycroft's smile was tight and utterly fake, the dangerous air about him felt like it was buzzing.

_He heard the same as me then, _Mrs Holmes thought darkly. She had heard the gossip already, it was a network within the hospital faster than phones, that her son had been here and had _collapsed _outside the hospital. She was pretty sure she knew why. _How pitiful. _"You saw that…thing…leave the hospital?" she asked. Mycroft's fist clenched. She had heard about it then. And she had said it as if it was a question about something as normal as the weather, as if it was what he had been expecting to hear. He gritted his teeth.

"No" he said, causing mother's eyes to narrow.

"What?"

"No, I did not see anyt_hing _leave the hospital, mother. I did, however, see my brother." Mycroft said. His mother gave a tight grin and Mycroft had to dig his nails into his palms just to distract himself. He had never been so angry with a person in his life, _never. _

Through all of the people who had hurt Sherlock, people who had physically tortured his brother on cases, all of the people Mycroft had suddenly had to report "mysteriously missing" to the authorities if they weren't caught, he had always remained emotionally detached, or as much as he could. Always stood back. But to think, that his own _mother, _their mother, would say so much that Sherlock would actually believe her, that hurt Mycroft the most. _Psychological attacks are always the worst, _Mycroft thought. He had always tried to believe in the "happy families" ordeal. He had at some points, ignored Sherlock's pleas in order to make himself believe everything was okay. He had even tried to convince himself sometimes that it could have been Sherlock's fault. _You know how it upsets mummy. _Mycroft remembered saying that. And in front of John too. Sherlock had barely just moved from the back of an ambulance, after seeing a man _shot, _after being taken from his own flat. And Mycroft had still jumped on the chance to wind him up like a dog on meat. If he hadn't have been with mother, he would have blushed in shame at the memory, but mother was silently analysing his every movement. _It wasn't me who upset her, Mycroft. _He had wanted him to believe him, and Mycroft hadn't listened, as always. Why did he never just listen? This entire thing could have been avoided if he'd have just listened to Sherlock in the first place.

Mother was smiling at him pleasantly now, as if she had worked out exactly what he was thinking. Maybe she had. _It wouldn't make any difference if she did, _Mycroft thought.

"What, mother," he said, quietly "Did you say to Sherlock?"

"I said nothing". She looked at him sweetly. _Butter wouldn't melt, _Mycroft thought darkly.

"You are a liar" he said softly, and his mother's eyes narrowed further.

"You have no right to say such a thing!" she cried, "You are an impertinent child! How dare you-"

"And how dare _you _mother," Mycroft cut her off, his voice only rising to a notch above normal volume, "speak to _my brother _in such a way? Hmm? Answer me that, mother. How _dare _you?"

"I will not be interrupted Mycroft-"

"And I will not be ignored any longer!"

It surprised even Mycroft. He had never gotten so angry, to actually shout. His voice had been full of authority, strong and loud, and even mother had gone silent. Mycroft had to blink to shake off his own surprise. He had _never _shouted, but now, he felt like doing nothing more than grabbing hold of the woman and shaking some sense into her. "You," Mycroft said, taking the opportunity of his mother's silence "have _no _rights to even see my brother anymore after what you have done to him. You are selfish, you are cruel, and this? This is _sick. _What you think of as fun, has _destroyed _my brother, do you understand that, mother? He _collapsed_ outside; I saw my own brother fall to the ground, unable to even _breathe _properly because of whom? My own mother. How do you think _I _feel mother?"

The woman remained motionless. Not even her smile came back, a sight that made Mycroft feel an insane amount of pride. He shouldn't feel proud, he knew it, but he did. He never wanted her to smile like that at Sherlock ever again. And if this was what he had to say to do it, then so be it. He stared her out. And then, inexplicably, she laughed. Outright laughter filled the room and Mycroft could barely contain how much he was shaken with rage.

"You," his mother gasped breathlessly, the laughter taking its toll on her already uneven breathing, "You call it your brother do you? Mycroft Holmes with his high position and his good business skills and his money, and he calls that thing his brother? And how does it feel to do _that, _hmm? Shameful? Do you feel as terrible as I feel for having that disease in the family name, to have the same blood? Something so filthy to be sharing your blood? Imagine it for me, when I also have you, with your delusions of grandeur and your high-and-mighty self! It's disgusting!"

Mycroft could swear right here, right now, that he had broken the skin on his palms; his nails were pushing so hard into them. It wasn't enough just to taunt Sherlock, but to fend off any protectors he had too. He waited a moment, composing himself, but he felt sick to the stomach just doing that. Why was he composing himself? He should show her how angry he was, but again pride stopped him, as it always did. If he was ashamed of anyone, it was himself. He couldn't even defend his own brother properly. And he was, although he could never admit it out loud, still that small bit afraid of the truth in what she said about him. Of her. He gathered up what was left of his tattered composure. It was a lie, it had to be. She lied to Sherlock, made him believe it. And now, the same was happening to him.

He took a deep breath.

"I promised him that I would look after him, from the likes of you" Mycroft hissed, "And so far, I've failed. And don't try and make me feel bad by saying that it's like everything else I say, because I already _do _feel bad. But I also feel like persevering with that promise for a long time, until the day when I don't have to try so hard. I am proud of him, and of myself and the only person I feel disgusted with is _you._"

"Proud? Of what? Your own father left you both to-"

"Father left _you_" Mycroft said coolly, "Like everyone else did. And you will be alone, mother. And Sherlock certainly won't have to listen to your lies again"

"He already believes the truth Mycroft, why can you not see it?" The voice was as sweet as honey, but it felt like a slap to the face and Mycroft's mind reeled at the words.

"The truth?" he said, so soft that he was glad the room amplified the noise, "The truth? You would not know the truth, mother, if you were told it. In fact, John did tell you it. That man, my brother, has stood up to more in his life than you ever had, and he still has the strength to come here, so you cannot even think to judge him on if he is better than you are, I can tell you for a fact right now, that he is"

Mycroft's thoughts coalesced as he spoke and he remembered just how much Sherlock _had _stood up to, even being as young a man as he was. Mother, father leaving, bullying, university, the drugs, the mockery of even the police force, the distrust, the disgust from people who didn't even know him, his brother, _this. _It was about time Mycroft did some of the standing for him, this was about how tall his brother really could stand, if only he had someone to lean upon.

"I've given you your chances; I've stayed scared of you for his sake. I'm choosing a side and it's not yours"

His mother's eyes widened in surprise before darkening. She looked like she was about to say something but Mycroft shook his head.

"It's about time Sherlock got his life back together. If you're not going to be there for him like a mother _should_, I will be". He straightened. "I'm done"

And with that, Mycroft turned and left the room, leaving his mother, for the first time in too long a time, thoroughly wiped of that smiled. And, Mycroft noticed, it seemed to have been the only thing holding him back from doing the one thing he himself hadn't done in a long time as, leaving the room, Mycroft gave his first genuine smile in a long time.

It felt good.

Heading out of the hospital, he waited for the car to arrive.

"You seem happy" his assistant said as he got in. He smiled and it felt like a weight had been lifted from him.

"Good visit?" she said, partially paying attention as always, phone in hand, but she seemed to be genuinely taking notice in Mycroft's sudden smile. Mycroft nodded, waving a go-ahead to the driver.

"Yeah. Good visit" he said.

"Going anywhere in particular sir?" the driver asked. Mycroft's smile widened. _Anywhere in particular. _He knew where he wanted to be, it was just getting there. Giving the driver his instructions, he settled back into the seat. _But then, _Mycroft thought, _I come from a family of problem solvers. _Looking out of the window at the passing people on the street, he sighed. _I think we can both figure this one out._

He listened to Anthea's daily report with only half interest as the car drove, his mind wandering onto other things, happily noticing that for the first time ever, his mother didn't even come to mind. He was going to make things right, he was sure of it.

_Lean on me little brother. _

* * *

_**A/N **__I know how short this is in comparison to my other chapters but I was gunna add something else onto this, but I think it deserved a chapter of its own so I'm putting it into the next chapter. Forgive me if I'm wrong *Goes into anime mode: "Please regard me kindly* And sorry it's short, I just thought it'd be more impactive. I'll try and get the next one out earlier to make it up to you guys._

_I was thinking while writing this, maybe their mother has the more opposite version of what the two brothers have? As in, instead of being unable to understand complex emotions and dealing with that, she can't understand that and so wants to cause the emotions she _does _know. Just a thought. Or she could just be sick and twisted. That works too :P _

_And since my friend Monika Watson is insisting on reading _and _reviewing this, a reply to her: Why do you never listen to me? I even asked nicely! And I haven't had breakfast yet but I think I might grab an apple, but I've got homework to do and Mad Men to watch. And I stayed up late last night watching Life, not writing *shame faced*. So there._

_Anyway, back to it: Next chapter will be on time *sheepish grin*, hope you enjoy your day, that Fanfiction is good to you for another week as ever and that you may always have someone to lean upon. _


	15. Not Alone

_**A/N **__An update? Again on an unusual day? A Saturday/Friday? :O Lol, yeah, nagging friends are great *sarcasm* Naw, love ya really, feel free to blackmail me for more chapters :D So yeh, hakunamatata since there's still gunna be a Sunday update too :D _

_Well, according to my *reliable* source, my A/Ns have been making less and less sense, last week's taking the figurative biscuit. But then again, my A/Ns stopped making sense to me like 11 chapters ago (:O Am I this far in? :O Wow :D That's a good amount of concentration for a gal like me!) so I'm surprised people held on this long :P I really really enjoyed writing this chapter (took a bit more time to get *right*, but no worries) so I hope you guys enjoy it too! We finally get to see some adorabubble brotherly-ness! Yay! :D_

_To all my reviewers/alerters/favouriters/ (any readers actually :P) Thank you! I am sending virtual Ben and Jerries' Ice Cream to you now ;) Oh and also, I love all the suggestions and comments on my Disclaimers :D They make me laugh every time I read them, they're great :D Thanks again!_

_**Disclaimer**__: Flying monkeys have been showing me picture of various TV characters and novels for hours now and I am beginning to remember why I hate cabbage, meaning surely my memory has returned! Flying monkeys now want payment in return. That means that whatever films I've recorded on the TV will be written over with reruns of Deal or No Deal and my Batcave will look like the Amazonian jungle just took a dump in it for the next four weeks. In which time, I am plotting less provocative ways to steal Sherlock. I will never give in! _

* * *

The first thing Sherlock did when he got home was take a shower. John watched as the detective passed him listlessly, not even speaking as he opened the door to the bathroom and closing it behind him. John waited a moment as he heard the shower turn on and he sighed, going to flop on the chair, waiting for Sherlock to come out and listening to the run of water.

He had practically had to carry the entirety of Sherlock's weight just to get him into the flat at all. As soon as the taxi had pulled up at 221B, Sherlock had tumbled out unsteadily onto the pavement, causing John to leap out of the car like a shot to catch him before he fell, practically throwing money at the cab driver who grumbled something about rude customers and their drunk friends, which had earned a death-stare from John. The cab driver had driven away pretty fast at that.

"Come on Sherlock," John had muttered, "Come on, let's get you into the flat". Sherlock had nodded but it was as if the words hadn't really sunken in. _Oh Sherlock, what has she done to you? _John thought as he tried to pick his friend up from where he was half doubled over, half falling over from his shaking legs, trying to breath. John hoped that Mycroft had carried out the determined, menacing look that had been in his eyes when John had seen him at the hospital. Mycroft had looked like he was ready to kill.

John mentally cursed the woman still back at the hospital for what must have been the hundredth time that day. Whatever she'd been telling Sherlock over the years seemed pretty ingrained and John tried not to think about Sherlock's apparent ease at "deleting" things. John wasn't entirely sure Sherlock could always delete the right sort of things.

"Up we get," John said as he heaved Sherlock up, watching as his flatmate wavered, swaying slightly. John moved forwards to help, but backed off when Sherlock rounded on him suddenly.

"I'm fine" he snapped. John blinked, surprised. So did Sherlock. Apparently it had come out with a bit more force than he had meant it and Sherlock looked down, avoiding his gaze, clearing his throat as John put the detective's arm around his shoulder and took some of Sherlock's weight as the consultant's entire body seemed to be shaking.

"You okay?" John asked.

Sherlock seemed to consider that question for a moment and then chuckled softly, something that gave John a little more bravery as he took more of Sherlock's weight.

"Not sure" Sherlock said, shaking his head softly as he chuckled. John gave a relieved laugh at Sherlock's weak remark and helped him stand straight. Sherlock allowed John to lead him to the door of 221B, only managing to take his own weight for a short amount of time as John rooted for the key before his nerve-weakened muscles gave out and he suddenly looked sick.

"You okay?" John asked, ignoring how stupid the question was. Sherlock gasped and bent double with his hands on his knees as he fought for breath.

They stood there for a moment, allowing time for Sherlock to gather his wits.

"I need to get a shower" Sherlock said.

"Okay, we'll get you inside" John said, but made no move to go until Sherlock said so. Sherlock waited for a moment before nodding to himself.

"She's not right, is she?" Sherlock said and John was almost caught off guard at the hope in his best friend's voice. But then, Sherlock always did surprise him. For someone who claimed to be such a "high-functioning sociopath" John knew it wasn't true, especially from his standpoint as a doctor. Sherlock certainly didn't fit the profile of a sociopath, not entirely.

He cared about people more than he realised. Out of all the careers he could have chosen with his intellect, he'd chosen to catch criminals. No sociopath John could think of would ever have the emotion to do that…and then still muster what John knew was worry for him. John was still surprised however at how, after everything, the detective's voice was still laced with hope. _Of course, _John thought, _it's not like Sherlock to give up. _John shook his head.

"She's not even close to right" John agreed and Sherlock seemed to absorb that for a moment before taking John by surprise yet again and holding up an arm for help. Immediately John complied and ducked to take the arm over his shoulder.

The door swung open when John gave it a little push and John nearly walked into Mrs Hudson, Sherlock not even noticing her (a frightening signal to John just how badly Sherlock needed to get sorted out, and fast) until he nearly crashed into her. The elderly woman immediately latched onto the situation, scooting to the side.

"Oh John, what has he done now?" Mrs Hudson asked worriedly. John tried to give her his least worried look, but it apparently wasn't enough as she was now flitting around them like a sparrow.

"Is he okay? Do you need me to get anything?" she asked, "I was just popping down to the shop".

"Paracetamol is fine Mrs Hudson," John said quietly, under his breath, but Sherlock apparently still heard as he shifted, annoyed, in John's hold. "And just a cup of tea too please if you can make one" John said. Mrs Hudson nodded, scuttling out for the shops to buy the paracetamol. John smiled weakly at Sherlock who managed a shade of his usual grin. John nodded satisfied.

It had taken five minutes to get his normally energetic flatmate upstairs and it broke John's heart on each step to see his broken down friend. He tried not to think too much about it as he sat now in the armchair listening as the water finally cut off. He sighed and wondered if Mrs Hudson was getting back soon.

* * *

Sherlock came out of the shower in one of his dressing gowns and what appeared to be pyjamas, his curly hair sticking to his head, soaked. John smiled at the way Sherlock seemed to be hugging his arms around himself as he crouched on the chair opposite.

"I'm fine" Sherlock said, before John could even open his mouth.

"Sherlock-" he began, but Sherlock interrupted before he could finish.

"I'm okay. I just…" he trailed off and sighed, looking absolutely exhausted. "I'm fine" he said. John sighed. Sherlock was in one of _those _moods. Meaning, John knew, he wouldn't be getting anything from him no matter how hard he tried.

"You're okay since you just spent the past fifteen minutes showering because you think for some reason that you're somehow contaminated with something? That doesn't sound okay" John stated, trying to keep his voice from betraying himself, trying to make it sound as level as possible.

Sherlock seemed to flinch a little but didn't speak for a while.

"Sherlock, you're not okay, you need to talk about this" John urged.

"No," Sherlock said, not looking up, "I'm not talking about…this. I-I'm going to take a nap". John frowned at that. Sherlock hardly ever slept.

"Sherlock-"

"I'll see you tomorrow? I don't fancy eating anything tonight" Sherlock asked. John's frown deepened at the obvious questioning tone in Sherlock's voice. As if he _still _expected him to leave him. He sighed.

"Of course Sherlock, just, promise me we'll talk about this later. And you'll eat _something. _I'll bring something in" John sighed. Sherlock nodded inertly. John nodded.

"Okay"

* * *

"I take it Sherlock is here?"

John jumped awake, a voice ripping him from where he must have fallen asleep on the sofa. He leapt up, looking around, surprised.

"Mrs Hudson left you some tea but you were asleep, she told me to tell you when she let me in"

John blinked ad looked towards the direction of the voice and he would never have thought how pleased to see Mycroft Holmes standing there he was.

"Is my little brother here?" he said. John felt a little dumb just stood there so he shook himself and nodded. He thought Mycroft might have texted or even called, but a visit really was unexpected.

"Um…oh, yeah, but I don't know if he's asleep…" John stuttered. Mycroft seemed to smile a little.

"Bedroom?" he said

"Oh, yeah, in his room" John said. Mycroft smiled a genuine smile that caught John off-guard.

"Thought so," he said, "No doubt hiding away from everyone". John nodded.

"May I go in and see him?" Mycroft asked.

"Um, are you sure that-"

"I'll be a moment" Mycroft said and with that, he headed across the room to Sherlock's bedroom door, carefully opening it and slipping inside.

John blinked. Living with the Holmes family around was even more insane than his own family, and that was saying something. For a moment, he briefly thought of Harry and wondered if he really was being hypocritical. He couldn't judge Sherlock's family life when his own wasn't exactly even either. He sighed and grabbed his laptop, pulling it open and opening up his emails. Predictably, there was Harry's weekly email. _Heard you solved a case__ the other week! When can I come over to meet your flatmate? I need to check on you, you know?_

John squinted at the screen, his hands hovering over the keyboard. Everything he wrote was deleted moments later and, sighing, he gave in, resorting to his usual response.

_Bit busy right now but I'm sure we'll do drinks soon._

Drinks. Soon. They were both things John really didn't want to do with Harry right now. Grumbling, he closed the laptop lid and sat back. He silently sent Sherlock better luck with his sibling.

* * *

Mycroft saw Sherlock tense up as he entered, hugging himself further into himself as the door closed softly behind Mycroft. He was curled up on the bed, facing away from the door and it was a long time after Mycroft sat down on the bed before Sherlock turned his head slowly to look at him, fixing Mycroft with an even stare and rolling over slowly to face him. Mycroft felt like giving a sigh of relief. The look was calculating and steady, but there was no resentment, and if Mycroft was to edge a bet, he'd say it was even a slightly open look, as if Sherlock actually, for once, wanted him to be there. Whatever they had argued about when Mycroft had last been here had been either deleted or forgiven, but Mycroft didn't mention that.

"Sherlock," he said, intending to continue when something tentatively wrapped around his wrist. He looked down at his arm, startled to see Sherlock's thin, pale hand coiled ever so lightly around his wrist. Mycroft blinked in surprise, but Sherlock had dropped his gaze, looking at the end of the bed with a cool stare.

Mycroft didn't move, allowing the soft grip to stay there. Other people hugged or shook hands or gave kisses, but not in the Holmes family, not often. This small gesture, this tiny movement comforted and listened all in one, as if clinging onto another's arm was enough to keep one from being swept away in the midst of all the chaos that followed them. Mycroft let the grip tighten a little and he deducted every small movement, the analysing, calculating sense working like a communication system, as if Sherlock could tell Mycroft everything without speaking. Mycroft stayed unmoving until Sherlock let go slowly and the hand lowered and Sherlock seemed to shimmy up the bed to lay a little closer to Mycroft.

Mycroft smiled softly and ran a hand through Sherlock's hair. He deduced that the hair was still drying from a shower and he gave it a little ruffle, a sad smile on his face. He could deduce everything that Sherlock had done that day, but feelings were always so hard to deduce. But when it came to this, this Mycroft could handle. He'd been comforting Sherlock from mother for all their lives, he was used to it. Mycroft knew that Sherlock would have pushed John away. It was just Sherlock's way. John couldn't understand this, even though Mycroft and Sherlock knew he'd try to. This was something Mycroft and Sherlock had been battling with together for years and even though Sherlock would never admit it, sometimes simple comfort cut it and sometimes, he just needed to be _understood. _And sometimes, Mycroft was the only person who could understand without being told. Mycroft knew about it, he'd _been_ through it.

The silence was companionable for a long time, sometimes shifts in the way Sherlock was laid would tell Mycroft about what he was thinking, but there was no words spoken until finally Mycroft gave Sherlock an encouraging smile and spoke up.

"I visited her, today" Mycroft said. Sherlock nodded but didn't say anything and Mycroft felt his stomach lurch sickeningly as he was reminded of a time when Sherlock was younger and father had hit him and he had gone mute for day. _Please Sherlock, _Mycroft begged silently, _please, please talk to me Sherlock. _He waited, silently urging his brother to talk.

"And?" Sherlock said finally, filling the silence. It wasn't accusing, merely curious and Mycroft let out the breath he'd been holding.

"I…I gave her what she deserved" Mycroft said. Sherlock blinked and looked up at him, shock filling his eyes.

"W-what?"

Mycroft smiled. "Yeah well, only a bit…but, I won't be visiting her again" Mycroft chuckled. Sherlock blinked, shocked but then grinned.

"How did she take that?" he said, amused. Mycroft shrugged.

"Like a Holmes" he said. Sherlock nodded, his smile fading a little.

"She doesn't have to be a part of our family Sherlock. I-it was my fault she was in the first place…I just wanted a family and… I was being selfish to want a perfect family for myself, to get where _I _wanted to be" Mycroft confessed, "I'm sorry". Sherlock nodded slowly but said nothing, but he seemed to move an inch or so closer to Mycroft, an unspoken signal of forgiveness. Deduction had meant a lot of the Holmes' conversations had been carried out more in silence than speaking. Even when talking, more could be deducted from them than their words.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably and looked up.

"I… I don't even know any more… I should… it's just, mother…she scares me. But if she dies, if she dies, it'll be just…just us" Sherlock whispered, the words coming out slow and staggered.

"It'll be scarier with just us two you think?" Mycroft asked, "We barely see her anyway, and we don't need money from her, we could-"

"I know…it's not _logical_" Sherlock muttered, "It doesn't make any _sense. _But I can't help it. It's bad enough now, never mind if mother dies". Mycroft nodded grimly. He remembered a much younger Sherlock, only a toddler, asking Mycroft is Mummy was going to die. _She's so ill Mycwoft. _He almost laughed out loud at the memory of how Sherlock used to say his name, as if he was permanently pouting. But the question sobered Mycroft up. Sherlock still was that little brother after all. He still didn't want to be left alone in the world. Mycroft smiled and laid a hand on the top of Sherlock's arm.

"I'll be there, I promise, even if mother goes. We'll be okay" he promised and Sherlock nodded.

There was another moment's silence.

"What are you going to do then?" Mycroft asked suddenly. Sherlock looked up at him, intrigued.

"How do you mean?"

"Well, this is it Sherlock, this is the last chance, no second time. Just this. You've got one shot. Mother…she's very sick and-"

"I'm not a child Mycroft!" Sherlock snapped. Mycroft raised his hands in mock surrender, diffusing the situation.

"I'm just saying Sherlock. Mother might not make it through and if there was _anything _you'd want to say…then this is the only time" Mycroft said. Sherlock seemed to think about it for a long time before he nodded. Mycroft smiled and giving a quick, annoying ruffle to Sherlock's hair, stood up. Sherlock sat up on the bed and Mycroft turned to speak to him.

"And what do you plan to do while this is happening then?" he asked. Sherlock shrugged.

"I have a case"

"Oh really? You know, I have a case that you could be-"

"No"

"Now, now Sherlock, don't make me knight you"

"Try it"

Mycroft smiled tightly at the familiar banter, his old façade back in place as Sherlock seemed to affix his own back on too.

"I'll work my case till this case dies down Mycroft. I have a lead on a man anyway, I'm apprehending him soon" Sherlock said. Mycroft nodded.

"Be careful" he warned. Sherlock rolled his eyes and Mycroft turned to go.

"I'm sure you'll be able to solve the mystery Sherlock" Mycroft said as he headed to the door, turning just before he left, "And I'm pretty sure by the time this is done, everything else will work out too. Sometimes even a genius needs to muddle things through Sherlock. It's the way we find out about the world"

With that, Mycroft opened the door, shooting a genuine smile back at Sherlock. Sherlock gave a nod back, a slight smile growing.

"Goodbye Doctor Watson" Sherlock heard as Mycroft left. Sherlock leaned back on the bed. He sat a moment thinking before picking up a case file as he settled back to read.

* * *

Half an hour later, Sherlock Holmes sat in his favourite Chinese restaurant with John, ordering and smirking as John indignantly pointed out to the waitress that no, they were not a couple God dammit and listening to the mundane tasks of John's everyday job. He smiled despite himself and wondered, quite inexplicably, if Mycroft was having dinner with anyone. Unable to shake the thought, Sherlock ordered Chow Mein and settled back to listen to John recounting a fairly amusing tale of an unusual patient at the clinic a few days ago. _Sometimes even a genius needs to muddle things through Sherlock._

Across the city, Mycroft Holmes sat in a car with his assistant on the way back to the office.

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson left for dinner a few moments ago sir" his assistant said.  
"Good" he said.

"Sir? Should we…surveillance or something?"

Mycroft smiled, "No…I think he needs a break, don't you?" His assistant nodded half-heartedly, tapping on her mobile and Mycroft sighed contentedly as the car pulled up into his office block.

* * *

**_A/N _**_I shouldn't say this since I'm the author but even though Mycroft really is genuinely smiling, I feel sorry for you poor readers as even I have trouble imagining Mycroft really smiling genuinely and not one of those fake, forced smiles Mycroft does :S Sorry guys :P If anyone finds any pics of him/Mark Gattis smiling, be sure to link it on a review or something, I'd love to see it just to say I'd seen it! It just seems…weird._

_Apologies by the way for any errors I've made, late night taping makes me useless I know, I should stop doing it :( But it's the only time it's quiet in my house :P Feel free to grill me over bad word choices/spelling/grammar and such. _

_Anyway, tune in again Sunday night! *theme tune of Walking Dead plays* "Gah! No, wrong Sunday night thing! *Bashes machine. Plays proper theme tune*_


	16. Urgent

_Here it is, as promised, sorry for the lateness of the hour (or earliness depending on where you live in the world :S) I'm so worried about this chapter not making much sense. It's all planned out in my head but I just don't know how well I'll have explained it. *Yikes*_

_Thanks to all the reviewers/alerters/favouriters who are every kind of awesome + a couple of hundred not invented! You guys make fanfic feel loved! (and myself :D) _

_Monika Watson: Grrr….. *sticks out tongue* This doesn't end here! I'll be nagging you at school tomorrow and the day after that and so on) I fixed the line break thing :) Sometimes just won't allow line breaks :(_

_**Disclaimer: **__I have put an advertisement in the newspaper reading: Wanted, Sherlock Holmes to take case of memory loss for helpless female. Interviewing at The Batcave *address given here*. Must be able to discover true identity of said damsel. _

_Now it's only a matter of time before Sherlock comes running right to my door to solve the case!_

* * *

_John,_

_Hey, it's Sarah again :) Just emailing about Mrs Holmes, she is getting even worse. She had a seizure late last night and we found liver dysfunction. Not knowing this meant that the Doxypram we gave her has destroyed her immune system and made complete liver failure very likely. If you are in Monday you will still need to be on her case._

_I've not seen you in a while, are you okay? The nurses said you were looking after Sherlock; apparently he's taking this pretty hard :( If you're not busy later, maybe you'd want to take a break? We could go for lunch, catch up; I'd love to see you soon! _

_Text or email me soon,_

_Sarah_

John smiled and tapped his fingers lightly on the laptop. It was true he hadn't seen Sarah in over a week and he'd missed her. In fact, he had been planning to text her himself at some point. He looked at Sherlock's closed bedroom door. For the first time ever, Sherlock was sleeping past 9:30, the time on John's computer reading 10:08am. The detective was usually up at 8:30 at the minimum, but when the pair had arrived back at the flat at 11:00 last night, John had been surprised when Sherlock had bade John goodnight only half an hour later, slumping off to bed looking happy, but tired. Happy was the thing that stuck most in John's head. John hadn't seen Sherlock acting so normal since before his mother had been admitted to hospital, since before he fell ill and John was ecstatic to see him at least loosely happy again.

_Come to think of it, _John thought, _he'd mentioned that case again last night. _John still hadn't been out on the hunt for the killer with him yet as he'd promised to do so and Sherlock was getting impatient as ever. He glanced at the bedroom door again. They _could _both use a break_. _John didn't want to crowd Sherlock, especially not if the first bit of Sarah's email was true. Sherlock had enough to worry about and John got the feeling that his independent streak was kicking in again. He'd refused to let John help him with anything last night and John took the hint to be that he was finally beginning to muddle through some things in his head. John wondered if a case really was the best thing for that to happen or not. But then with Sherlock, John could never tell.

And it wasn't as if he didn't need a break too. John wasn't keen on letting Sherlock roam around on his own, but it was also true that he was exhausted. He needed a break as much as his erratic flatmate. Especially with the foreboding contents of Monday's work schedule, if Sarah's email was anything to go by. John knew that Doxypram was a risky substance anyway, but when combined with the partial liver failure, John knew from experience that the results could go as far as fatal. Making a decision, John picked up his mobile. They could both use a break. Quickly, he typed up a reply and sent it.

_Sounds great. I can come pick you up today? Go out for lunch, 12 o' clock? John. _

It was only a moment before a reply buzzed his mobile and he took a look.

_Great! I'll see you at my place at 12:00? We can take a walk to that new restaurant near my place :) See you soon_

John tapped his phone against the chair, smiling, oblivious to when Sherlock's bedroom door opened and the man himself stepped out, hair askew, dressing gown hanging off him like a coat on a hook, looking like he'd had a good rest for the first time in ages.

"You look happy" Sherlock commented, making John jump, "You going out with Sarah I presume?"

"What? How- Oh don't even bother. It's too early" John said, bewildered. How Sherlock knew it was Sarah after he hadn't mentioned her in over a week was beyond him.

"You're having lunch together I take it? The new place? Just opened down from where she lives. Apparently the curry is very good, the Masala is extraordinary supposedly" Sherlock stated, making John gape. Typical for Sherlock to not only know _where _he was going but also what the food was like and what was their best dish. John gave a surprised smile. It was good to see Sherlock back to his old ways again, amazingly enough, John had really missed Sherlock's insane deductions and reasoning.

"Yeah, I'll be going about 11:30, I need time to get there" John explained, "You going to be okay?"

John watched Sherlock saunter over, throwing himself down on the sofa and stare up at the ceiling dramatically. _Well, _John thought, _almost__ all of Sherlock's antics are welcome back. _Sherlock looked over at John and gave a sly grin.

"I have a killer to catch" he said. From anyone else, John would have been disturbed by the sudden outburst, but he barely blinked at Sherlock's announcement.

"You finally tracked him down then?" John said. He was actually more than a little impressed that, despite everything that had been going on, Sherlock had still managed to track down a deranged serial killer.

"Yes," Sherlock said, sitting up and clasping his hands together in an oh-so-Sherlock way, "I'm closing the net today. I should have ample time to apprehend the culprit while you are with Sarah."

"If you want some help I could-" John began.

Sherlock shook his head. "No, it's easy enough. He's promised to kill a certain executive on a computer company named Ace-Excel according to Lestrade; I'm catching him before he gets the chance. It's really rather interesting for such a simple case" Sherlock explained. _Simple, _John mentally scoffed; _only Sherlock could call a serial murder mystery "simple" and get away with it. _

"Well if you need help then just call me okay?" John asked. Sherlock looked irritated and waved him away, opting to return to his original laying down position, taking his phone from his pocket (a rather excellent display of energy, John thought, at least he didn't ask me to do it for him) and lifting it above his head so he could see the screen to text. John smiled at the familiar sight; thanking God that Sherlock had found something close to his version of normality to feel at least a little bit better in himself. But then, since he met Sherlock, John had been contemplating what exactly was normal for himself nowadays.

Getting up, he headed over to the kitchen to make himself some breakfast.

"You want any breakfast Sherlock?" John called in. As always, Sherlock didn't reply and John sighed as he made two cups of tea, taking it upon himself to make breakfast when, suddenly, he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He opened the text, surprised at the blocked number.

_Sherlock's favourite toast topping is marmalade. Enjoy your time with Sarah, John; make Sherlock eat something before he goes dashing off. MH_

John blinked. _Wow, _he thought, staring at the text. Mycroft really was trying hard, even if John was now absolutely certain that the cameras-in-the-house story wasn't just Sherlock telling tales. Feeling well and truly paranoid, John grumbled to himself quietly about "God-damn Mycroft" while he quickly made some toast, effectively burning the first batch while searching for marmalade and having to wave a tea-towel at the fire alarm to stop it going off and getting repeatedly teased by Sherlock (who had no room to talk since he didn't cook at all).

Finally John managed to send a thank-you reply back to Mycroft and carry two plates and two mugs back into the living room where Sherlock was sat typing on John's laptop.

"Is that my-? Oh never mind" John said, setting down the crockery. He'd pretty much gotten used to Sherlock using his laptop now, in fact Sherlock used a lot of John's stuff when he couldn't be bothered to get his own and John had gotten used to not complaining about it. John passed the marmalade covered toast over to Sherlock who glared at it suspiciously, as if it wouldn't have surprised the detective if it had have jumped from the plate and bit him. John tucked into his own, which he'd also covered in marmalade to disguise the conspicuousness. John nonchalantly ate his own toast and saw a small smile make its way onto Sherlock's face as he recognised the substance and, most likely, who had recommended it. And then, to John's complete and utter amazement, Sherlock Holmes, the guy who passed out from not eating and went for days without sleep, took a bite of food without neither invitation or prompting. John practically gaped. _I'm using that stuff more often, _he thought.

* * *

"Sherlock, I'm leaving!" John shouted from the hallway. Sherlock turned his head lazily to the time on the TV where Jeremy McKyle was currently scalding someone over their apparent lechery.

"See you soon; call me if you need me!" John called and Sherlock got up from the sofa.

"Have fun" Sherlock replied and he listened to the door close. As soon as John left, Sherlock let out a sigh and stretched, as if shaking off the cobwebs that had grown on his mind that had been left to stagnate for far too long over the past two or three weeks. He watched the TV show's credits play out and smiled. Mycroft would probably laugh at his recent enjoyment of the rather trivial reality shows. _Maybe he'd like them? _Sherlock thought, _you could introduce him to them. _He tried to imagine him _and _Mycroft watching the show, shouting loudly at the screen. He shuddered. It would be comical if it wasn't so weird.

In the end, he was too excited to wait any longer. He felt as if he'd been cooped up so long he could barely wait to just get out. Even outside, over the past week he'd felt caged in and he was relieved to finally be able to breathe again. Grabbing his coat, he ran outside and caught the fastest cab to the Ace-Excel offices he could.

He arrived about 40 minutes later and after paying his fare, shot out of the cab. The offices were huge and imposing, people going in and out of the revolving doors into the reception, a few workers stood outside smoking. Sherlock grimaced. He had been dying for a cigarette for weeks. He was on the edge of going over and asking them for a smoke but just the thought of John's disappointed look was enough to make him sober up, gathering his wits as he focused his attention on a large man, a delivery worker by the looks of it. He was weighty but with a strong build around his shoulders, hat drawn down low over his face. Sherlock zoned in on him.

There was definitely something about him, something shifty and even a little unnerving, but it didn't shake Sherlock. There was something about the man that he couldn't quite place his finger on and it was annoying him no end. _The killer? _He couldn't really see, but it was enough to make him grin with glee. _Finally_, he thought, _something to do._ Grinning ear to ear, he kept his own head down as he carefully followed the man into the building.

* * *

John sat in the restaurant eating a chicken Tikka Masala with Sarah, laughing about something she'd overheard a nurse talking about at the hospital.

"I'm going to just go ask for another drink over at the bar, you want one? It's my turn to buy" She smiled and John felt himself blush. Sarah always made him take the drinks in turns if they ever went out. She's never let him pay the whole thing, even when he tried to insist.

"Oh, er no thanks, erm-" John stuttered, feeling awkward. Sarah rolled her eyes.

"Same again then?" She said, taking in John's near empty glass. John blushed but nodded and she grinned, standing up to go.

"Righto, be back soon" she said. John watched her head to the bar and his eyes drew to the television above the large menu on the opposite wall, the news playing on silent with the subtitles playing underneath.

John squinted at the screen and what he saw made him feel sick. He wasn't sure, he didn't even know what the whole report was yet, but there was just something in his stomach that made it bubble sickeningly as he saw what appeared to be a huge, wrecked building playing on the screen. He jumped as his phone rang and he quickly opened up the text, unable to shake the inexplicable butterflies curling his stomach.

_Get to the hospital, it's on the news. Urgent. Please come soon. MH. _

John blanched. _Please come soon. Sherlock, _John immediately was already getting his coat together as his eyes drew to the news again and the thing that had been eating away at his stomach was revealed. John could see what remained of what was a 12 story office block and he felt physically sick as he could make out from the half letters on the building's side as they read "Ace-Excel". He caught the subtitles on the screen as he quickly scribbled a note on a napkin for Sarah, not caring for the rudeness. He risked a read of the subtitles and wished he hadn't. It felt as if the world had imploded, as if the laughter from only moments ago had died and dissapeared as if it was never really there at all.

…_Reports are sweeping in of a suicide bombing here at the Ace Excel offices, the bomb was big enough to rip a hole right through an entire floor of the building, causing several floors above to collapse also. Police and firemen are working together with the ambulance service here to dig out the survivors and the dead amidst this chaos. Family and friends are being urged to visit the nearest hospitals for details and…_

John didn't see anymore, already running from the restaurant. The offices. The offices Sherlock had been in had been bombed. John sprinted around the corner, ignoring the need to get a cab. A cab took time in all this traffic; time wasted getting to the hospital, time Sherlock might not have. John gasped for air as his throat felt like it was closing in and he was sure it wasn't just from the running.

_Sherlock. _

* * *

:O What have I done? No! God damn my evil brain

_So it all started out normal then 3…2…1… Bang! God, I so hope it made sense and people get what I've actually wrote, I'm really worried that I'll know what I'm on about and readers will just be like "Wut?" I'll rewrite it if necessary; just say the words dear reader and it shall be done!_

_Lol, sorry this chapter started off so similar to another (I think so, was it? Can't remember which one) but I don't think the 221B breakfast scene is much different when Sherlock is so mellowed out :D_

_Okay, I know this A/N is supposed to be all tense and stuff but, "Sherlock used a lot of John's stuff when he couldn't be bothered to get his own" Would that not make a really funny list-fic? Lol, "Items of John's that Sherlock uses when he couldn't be bothered to get his own". Lol :D That'd be great to write :) I'd write it, unless anybody else is seized by the plot bunny, if it does, by all means take it for your own and write a fic, lol, obviously containing the weirdest, funniest, *sometimes even dirtiest*, downright scariest items you could think of :D_

_I hope I make some sense one day :) Next chapter out soon!_


	17. Loss

_**A/N **__Sorry for the lateness, but my excuse is valid this time since wouldn't let me upload last night because of some "Timing out error" :( I tried to post it as early as possible this morning. So yeah, excuse is kinda valid and in any case, to make it up, this chapter is kinda long with warning: quite a lot of hurt, so sorry if you thought comfort was coming up, I have more to do with our Sherlock :/ I feel bad. Another warning: This chapter is actually pretty gory and could contain disturbing imagery, I feel kind of mean/sick/twisted for writing it, sorry if it disturbs :S Also, if you've guessed what's coming, awesome ;) I tried to make it as real and believable as possible (even looking at all this medical stuff online and reading up ;P) _

_Anyway, moving on, to all the amazing reviewers, alerters and favouriters, you guys made my wish on the first star at night :) Aw, that was sweet right? :) But really, thanks soooooo much as ever! And sorry there was no double update, you must think I'm a real meanie, sorry :S I really will try for next week though! I'll be doing some brainstorming tomorrow :D_

_**Disclaimer: **__Thanks to the awesome idea from the ever faithful reviewing of 98Shaddowolf98 , I made an alligator pit to trap Sherlock in when he came to my door. Unfortunately, he saw through the plan that the alligator pit was a distraction, dodged the suspension rope I set up to ensnare him and I am currently chasing him through the streets, laptop in hand. Any ideas on how to catch him welcome, I think your interaction with my disclaimers is beyond awesomeness and me being me, I need all the help I can get :/ "Go flying monkeys, take flight, after him!"_

* * *

The double doors to the ICU flung over with a resounding_ smack _as John Watson thundered into the hospital, his sprint halting mid-step as he took in the carnage that met him. He knew that people had gone to the hospitals after the explosion, but this…this was worse than John had begun to comprehend. He coughed, his eyes watering as he took in the sheer destruction, bile rising in his throat as that _smell _hit him like a truck as he stood, feeling as if he needed to retch just to get rid of the foul taste welling in his mouth.

John knew what the smell was like, he'd served in Afghanistan. When he'd come home he'd stunk of it for days, the stench had soaked into every fibre of his being like a poison, he'd felt it, right down to his bones, like the smell had sunken all the way down to his insides. He'd wondered how people hadn't noticed it, maybe they had but hadn't mentioned it, till he realised that it was never really there…it just felt like it was. Like he couldn't forget the acrid, rotting smell. And now here it was again, in a _hospital. _He didn't want to be able to see the crowd of people inside the ICU that accompanied it. The whole floor smelled like death and blood and loss and vomit and just the smell of it made John want to run away.

_Can't run away, _John thought, swallowing hard as his eyes stung at the foul smell of blood, _Sherlock's somewhere here. _He felt a sob rise as he took in the image. People were everywhere, flooding the entire unit like a tidal wave. _Everyone from the office building is here, _John thought. He shook his head at the thoughts of Afghanistan that swarmed his mind as he took in the sea of people. A young woman, a courier for the company by the looks of it, a pretty girl if not for the way her face was twisted in agony as she clutched her crushed hand. A man, screaming at the top of his lungs for someone to _just help him_ as he knelt by his wife as she bled onto the floor. John could tell from here she wasn't going to make it; there was a man on a gurney to John's left screaming with only half of his legs drawing the attention of the doctors.

John tried to make a coherent thought but found that he couldn't. He swallowed thickly and tried to breathe as shallowly as could be allowed to stop the acrid scent of blood from filling his sinuses. Shakily, he pushed past a nurse, but felt himself feel suddenly enclosed in the horde of people around him. _Sherlock, _John thought, _you need to find Sherlock. Focus. _He blinked hard, eyes watering as he almost tripped over a man laying by a wall, a nurse sewing up his arm right there. It was like a battlefield, John observed.  
He stumbled out into a hallway, suddenly lost. Where the hell was he supposed to look? There were people everywhere, filling the corridors: patients, doctors, nurses, family, friends, co-workers… and somewhere in all the masses, just one person that John would give anything to see okay again just one more time. One zany, brilliant, amazing detective. John had to find him. If he didn't find him in time… John didn't want to think about that. He was going to be okay. He had to be. Where was he? John stumbled around the ICU. Sherlock was okay, he had to be. John repeated the saying like a mantra, he had to be okay, but with each passing minute he was getting more desperate.

It had been almost fifteen minutes and no-one had seen him. John blinked away the impending wetness from his eyes. He was okay, he had to be okay, Sherlock was going to be okay, he always was. Desperation stung at his eyes and the lump in John's throat was growing. He thought of texting Mycroft but in the crowd, he could barely even stop, never mind reach his phone, the amount of people was crushing. _Sherlock, _John pleaded in his head, _please…where are you? _He scanned the corridor to his right.

"Mary!" John shouted, suddenly spotting a familiar nurse. She worked on the maternity ward most often, but John spotted her over by a crowded sink area, washing what looked like cuts from glass out of a young woman's hand and arm, a roll of bandages nearby. The young nurse's worried face looked up, concern creasing her young features into something that looked much older. She searched for the source of the voice for a few moments and then she laid eyes on John and it looked as if she'd never been more relieved to see a person in her life.

"John!" she cried, her voice only just drifting above the noise that was surging through the entire hospital.

John pushed through the crowd, almost falling onto Mary in his rush to get there.

"I need to find someone," he said, "Quite tall, curly brown hair, might have been wearing a long navy blue coat, have you seen him?" He hadn't meant to gush it out as fast as he did, or for his hands to shake as much as he gripped his leg in anxiety. The nurse shook her head, eyes shrouded with regret.

"Sorry," she said, "Was he… was he there? When it happened?" John nodded and the woman looked truly apologetic.

"Sorry," she said again. John nodded, turning to go. He needed to find Sherlock. He was only a step away when suddenly she looked back at him.

"John!" she cried, making him turn to look at her again. "I-I think… I don't know, maybe…I-"

"What? What is it?" John said, stepping forwards, fear and full blown desperation making his stomach flip. _Please, please, tell me he's okay. _"Anything," John said, "Whatever it is, what is it?"

"Well, I didn't know if it was who you said, I couldn't really see… I didn't want to get your hopes up and it not to be the right person… And he was taken to a different ward, not the ICU… he got put into one of the rooms," Mary said.

John felt his stomach twist. If that was Sherlock… a room and not the ICU was a bad sign. It could mean that whatever injuries he had were serious. John shook his head. No, he was okay; it was going to be okay.

"Tell me Mary, what is it?" John urged.

"There was a guy brought in here about half an hour ago, I didn't see him over the ground, I think he was on a stretcher, but I heard him." Mary winced at the thought, "I thought he shouted your name, but I'm not sure. He shouted something else too, really unusual, started with an M I think, but I'm not-"

"Mycroft. He said Mycroft." John said suddenly. Mary nodded in recognition but John was already gone.

John sprinted through the corridors as best he could, his knowledge of the hospital coming in handy as he attempted to cut through the least crowded areas of the ICU. He had to force himself to not be reminded of the way Sherlock used his knowledge of London to find his way, much like this. John didn't want to think of anything like that, not now. He just wanted to find him safe. Speeding past the cardio centre, he turned a corner and pushed open a pair of double doors, slamming into the side of the over-crowded admittance desk.

"Becky! Becky! What rooms have been used for the explosion victims?" The words spilled from his mouth even before he hit the desk and Becky looked at him, surprised.

"Um, kind of busy here John," Becky said, gesturing to the people surrounding the desk.  
"I know, Becky, I need to know," John cried.

Becky blinked, John's complete desperation taking her by surprise.

"Um, I don't know, um… I'll check," Becky said, turning to type on her computer. John tapped his hand impatiently on the counter. He felt like yelling or screaming or running off to search again, just to do something, standing here waiting made him feel useless.

"Rooms 400 through 459 are being used for serious cases till we sort out the mess in the foyer. Apparently over 3000 people were in the building when it blew and they've mostly all got injuries of some kind, apparently almost all the floors in the collapsed" Becky informed him. John nodded his thanks, jogging past the crowd. _Rooms 400 to 459, 400, 459, 400… _John flung open the doors to cardiology and ran down the hall, glancing in each room. _Damn it Sherlock, where are you?_

"This is unacceptable; I demand to see someone with some authority around this sham of a hospital!" John glanced in the direction of the voice and nearly cried with joy. He had never been so happy to hear Mycroft Holmes so angry. Angry was good, angry was better than distraught, better than panicked. John couldn't believe he was saying it, but right now, angry was good.

"Who organised this?" John could hear Mycroft shouting and he travelled down the rooms towards the furious voice, stopping finally at his destination. His heart stopped beating for a moment. _No. _

Room 414.

John shook his head, blinking. _What kind of idiot arranged that? _He thought menacingly in his head as he took in the pinned-up name already on the door. _Mrs A. Holmes._ John felt guilt surging through him. He hadn't got here quick enough and now not only was Sherlock injured but he was in the very same room as the person he had avoided for years of his life.

"I don't care if there's no room elsewhere, get him moved" Mycroft snarled from inside. John opened the door to see a doctor practically cowering under Mycroft's hard gaze.

"Mr Holmes, we believe the circumstance to be fortuitous, room shares have become necessity obviously, with the influx of patients, and to get two people of the same family, despite obviously being terrible that they are here in the first place, does actually make it much less awkward for other patients and gives-"

The doctor was cut off as Mycroft stormed across the room, coming almost nose to nose with the man, eyes blazing and for a moment John thought that he would strike him. Instead, Mycroft leant forwards by the doctor's ear and John had to strain to hear him.

"If you do not get him moved this very instant, I promise you that you will be fired from this job and every other job you will ever even _attempt _to get, in less time than it would take to apologise to me" Mycroft hissed and John himself felt like backing away with the pure fury lacing Mycroft's deceivingly calm voice. "Understood?" Mycroft asked and the doctor paled.

"Sir, sir the patient…we can't… the blood loss is, well, to move him would effectively be to kill him, it doesn't appear stressful, but Mr Holmes is in a very delicate state right now, to move him could worsen his condition to catastrophic levels sir" the doctor managed to blurt out.

John paled, looking past Mycroft.

"Sherlock," he muttered and it seemed only then did Mycroft and the doctor notice him at all.

"John," Mycroft said as he saw him, looking as if he'd come out of a daze, but John was past hearing him as he rushed to the side of the bed furthest from him, purposefully ignoring Mrs Holmes who had woken in the commotion. He felt his own breath catch in his throat as he fully took in the frighteningly pale detective laid out on the hospital bed.

"Excuse me sir," the doctor said, but John ignored him, and he ignored Mycroft's explanation. He ignored the two heart monitors buzzing nearby and the steady beeping and the whirring of the computer over by the desk and the sound of his own breathing as he simply stared at the sight that broke his heart in two.

Sherlock Holmes lay bleeding into the bandages around his ribs and John knew already, just by looking at him, that moving him any time soon was not an option. John was nearly sick as he managed a glance at the detective's legs, the hospital sheets thrown back to provide some amount of cool air onto the burns that coated Sherlock's legs, and John had to swallow down bile as he took in the right leg that seemed to be dislocated at the knee and ankle, and worse, the small amount of shin bone that had pierced the skin of Sherlock's leg. John had seen injured before, of course he had, he was a doctor, but this was_ Sherlock. _This wasn't the usual bruise or split lip or even broken bone that John scolded him for on cases. This was his flatmate, his best friend, the one person John did not want to lose, and he was losing him. There were some burns on Sherlock's right hand too; cuts and bruising everywhere John looked. He took in the cuts on his friend's face, the huge gash right across Sherlock's forehead that glistened sickeningly with blood.

John stood, staring for what felt like the longest moment of his life, time slowed to a stop as he waited with his body tensed up to hear Sherlock take a breath. He'd seen the vitals and the monitor and the doctor part of him had taken that into account, doing the math, calculating and observing. But this wasn't just a patient. This was Sherlock. He needed to hear that breath for himself, or else, no matter how silly it sounded, he wouldn't believe it. Not with the deathly pale white that showed up on Sherlock's skin against the blood. He waited, holding his own breath until… there it was. Small, tiny even, but unmistakably Sherlock's, the shallowest of breaths that made Sherlock whimper just by taking it as even such a puny action made his lungs scream at him.

John looked up at Mycroft as if all eternity had passed, as if he's sat down and watched it go by, his face solemn. Mycroft met his eyes. He'd seen eternity too.

"The…the doctor's right…about moving him." John whispered, the words hard to force out. Mycroft closed his eyes and nodded. The doctor seemed satisfied enough.

"Leave." Mycroft commanded. The doctor looked around, as if questioning whom Mycroft had been instructing. John gave him a glare and the doctor realised, leaving as fast as he could manage.

"I-I came as fast as I could" John said. He gave a humourless breath of laughter. "I ran all the way here. Couldn't…couldn't find his room, there were people all over. I thought-"

"How serious is my brother's condition Dr Watson? And do not lie to me, believe me, I will know about it" Mycroft suddenly said, interrupting him. It was the same tone of voice he had used to the other doctor, but more controlled.

John didn't say anything for a long moment before answering.

"I don't know what you want to hear Mycroft-" John began but was cut off sharply

"The truth, Dr Watson". John sighed. "I don't know… I really don't. I need to take a look at him, start treatment right away" John said. There was a moment's silence and Mycroft nodded.

"I hope the little thing dies" Mrs Holmes said suddenly from her bed. She hadn't spoken until now, biding her time. The entire room went deathly still; the tension strung so tight it almost hurt just to be there. John saw red like never before, taking a step forwards, but stopped, surprised as Mycroft bet him to it.

"You _ever _say a word to him while he is in this room mother and-"

"You'll what?" Mrs Holmes challenged, smiling softly. Mycroft took a step forwards and leaned over.

"Or I will remove my finances from your hospital bills. And see how well you cope then" Mycroft threatened and John felt his eyes go wide at the ultimatum.

Mrs Holmes stopped smiling for a moment, pursing her lips tight. "Fine," she drawled and gave her son a venomous glare. Mycroft nodded, satisfied and straightened up.

"I am getting coffee" he announced suddenly, "I'm to stay here a while so at least I'll go get coffee, would you like some Dr Watson?" John blinked, looking up from where his gaze had returned to rest on Sherlock.

"Oh, um, yeah, tea please, thanks" John stuttered. Mycroft gave a tight, fake smile and straightened his jacket, making himself once again presentable to the world. It was only then that John noticed the dust covering Mycroft's jacket and hands; even a little on his face. And the blood, his palms were coated in it. John tried to avert his stare and not ask questions just yet. Mycroft caught his gaze but pretended not to notice, turning to walk out. He stopped just before the door as something caught his eye. His mother, ever so subtly, was giving him a sly smile as he walked by. Nothing good ever came of that.

* * *

John waited until Mrs Holmes had drifted asleep, a mere 15 minutes later until he sat down beside Sherlock. He didn't want to give the old woman anything else to taunt Sherlock with while he was here; he had somehow managed to keep an eye on her for now as he looked at Sherlock's report sheet. Broken shin bone with protruding break, cracked ribs, one with an open fracture like the at the shin bone, agonising burns (ones that had been bad enough to warrant a sedative to stop him from screaming when the doctors had tried to bandage them), concussion, broken arm, immense blood loss, the list went on to a point that John could barely read it. He could do with that tea Mycroft offered, he'd been gone over quarter of an hour, but with the floods of people and the chaos, John didn't expect him back for a while. Plus, he reckoned that he'd be stopping off to wash his hands of what John assumed was blood. Sherlock's blood. How Mycroft had ended up covered in it John didn't know, didn't want to know.

He sat down beside Sherlock, laying a hand on the bed beside him.

"Hey," he said. He blushed, feeling lame for talking to his friend when he was unconscious. He'd done it before, when Sherlock had collapsed, when he'd been ill, but he still felt himself go a shade of pink in embarrassment. He'd always seen it as a silly thing to do, until he himself had had the chance to do it. Then things were different. Things were always different with Sherlock. "I made it," John said, "I ran to get here, you made me run again". He gave a weak chuckle, but felt it lodge in his throat, making him attempt to clear it. "So, I need you to get better," John said weakly, "Or else, who do I share a flat with, ey? I can't see myself living on my own anymore and I am not going to go back to a boring old normal flatmate. And who am I going to get that's going to complain about me mothering them huh? Lestrade would go crazy; nobody could solve cases like you. You need to get better or the whole city would go crazy". _I'd go crazy. _

John carried on talking, watching his flatmate with an unwavering gaze. He couldn't tell for how long, it felt like hours until he saw it, the slightest twitch of the hand. Unreasonable amounts of relief washed over him at the movement before he remembered. Sherlock couldn't wake up, not yet, he'd got sedated for a reason. Torn between asking for help and staying with his friend, John leaned over his flatmate who had begun to stir.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, it's going to be okay alright?" John said. _Liar, _his brain said to him simply. That was the moment the screaming started.

Sherlock's eyes were barely open before the cries were ripped from his throat against his will, and John could barely take the sound. _Why did it have to be Sherlock? _Sherlock seemed to cough over a sob and John finally managed to make his muscles move when he swore he heard his name, a desperate plea lost in a whimper. A nurse came in, rushing over, Mrs Holmes now wide awake and smirking with sickening glee.

"Oh I do wish he'd be quiet" she mocked, grinning. John tried to ignore her, blood boiling so much it took all his restraint to try and keep to his task. He ran to the drawers on the desk, ripping them open. He didn't look when Mycroft ran in, apparently he'd been gathering himself together nearby. John ignored everything, rooting through the stacks of injections. His medical mind kicked in and he found it in seconds, Fentanyl. It was strong, especially mixed with ketamine, but it was also the best form of sedation. It hurt to have to sedate his friend, but he also knew the agony he'd be in wasn't worth being awake for.

Mycroft had run to Sherlock's side and was looking shell shocked as the nurse helped John to hold the detective still as he injected him as best he could, the screaming man shouting for both John and Mycroft simultaneously and John swore he saw Mycroft rub something away from his eye as he turned to stop looking at his brother, the pain becoming too much. Finally, a few minutes later, Sherlock stopped screaming, the pain dying in his throat as he slid into unconsciousness, John and Mycroft simultaneously catching his descent from the sitting position and easing him back. John gave Mycroft a sympathetic look with he pointedly ignored as the nurse hurried to go fetch a doctor to administer more morphine. There was silence for a few minutes; Mrs Holmes chuckling softly to herself as he glared at Mycroft who stood numbly to Sherlock's left.

"He's going to be alright" Mycroft said suddenly, the words a statement, a simple fact, nothing more, nothing less. John nodded, forcing himself to believe it. _He has to be. _

* * *

_**A/N **__I hope that wasn't too hopeless and coincidental, I tried to make it realistic :/ (That's my fave emoticon at the moment, I bet you noticed :D) If it was, then feel free to pummel me and make as many inappropriate comments about my writing skills as you see fit on reviews :) *Cue butterflies in my tummy when I go to open my inbox :S* Just a note- nurse Mary wasn't intentionally using the name Mary from the films, but once I re-read it, it kinda made me smile :) Thanks for reading and I hope I can get the next one out soon! Stupid exam period screwing up my life :D Oh well, no worries (my new saying recently is "No worries" :D) _


	18. Save

_**A/N: **__Okay guys, quite a varied chapter here on the first instalment of this week's double update *audience goes: "ooooooh!"* With 4 main characters I have tried to give them all a bit of "fic-time" this time around, so there's going to be some variety even on the H/C front here, with a mix of hurt and comfort :) How we like it, no? :D_

_To reviewers/alerters/favouriters, thanks soooo much as ever! Great to hear from you all and thanks for the interest shown in both my story and disclaimer (I was discussing with a friend whether serialised disclaimers were odd, but oh well, they're great fun!) Also, to all those reviewing in with ideas, you guys are awesome! Any requests and ideas are both loved and listened to, so feel free! _

_And finally, a smidge of a note before we begin: This chapter starts with a flashback in case you like/don't like them, just to let ya know :) I'm afraid Sherlock will only be waking up towards the end of this week, sorry, but no worries, since plenty of comfort is to be distributed at the end of this chapter and in the next update if I have anything to say about it!_

_**Disclaimer: **__With a little help from reviewers, Sherlock is soon to be within my grasp. I called the T.A.R.D.I.S and she is on her way, armed with a hologram of Moriarty, realistic enough to fool even the great Sherlock Holmes! Soon he will be going for Moriarty and in doing so, falling straight into the T.A.R.D.I.S, the doors closing right behind him! Sherlock will soon be mine! *Evil cackle" Muhahaha!_

* * *

_Sherlock kept his distance, not making his presence known to the man he was tailing as he entered the office block. The foyer was huge and clean, sparkling white floors and walls, perfectly dressed men and women flitting here and there, coffees in hand. Sherlock didn't even need to be concentrating to deduce about them, just a glance would do. There was the odd splash of orange as delivery boys came to and fro, the odd visitor, a man that Sherlock deduced had come to propose to his wife while she was in a meeting. _Romance is a waste of time, _Sherlock thought as his eyes returned to his target._

_The man was tall and well built, his stomach the only part of him protruding. Sherlock tried to stop his mind from getting distracted. _Stop thinking about other things, _Sherlock told himself, _Delete them! _He tutted his annoyance, frustrated. He wasn't thinking clearly, too busy thinking about Mycroft and John and…mother. And God-dammit, why was that man bugging him so much? There was just something about him that was driving Sherlock crazy; he couldn't quite lay his hands on it. He looked nervous, yes, verging on fidgety, but it wasn't that. Something about his stature, his size, the way he was standing. Damn, why was it so hard to think?_

_He tailed the man into the lifts, taking the one next to him, waiting a little to make sure that he'd deduced the man's floor right. He felt frustration well up at his self-doubt but he tried to dismiss it and followed the man up. The lift was empty apart from him and he immediately felt better on his own. People annoyed him with their little lives, running around, so boring. He tapped his foot impatiently, the doors finally opening with a soft "ping" and he stepped through them, checking down the corridor. _

_He was there, stood, simply, in the middle of the corridor. People were giving him strange looks for his stillness as they passed and Sherlock frowned. What was he doing? Who, or what, was he waiting for? He'd said that he was going to kill someone; Sherlock knew it was someone here, so why wasn't he heading to the corporate rooms in the above floor? Why was he stood here? Then it hit him and he snapped his head round, counting the number of people in the corridor. _Posture, stature, height, floor…bomb. _Sherlock counted twelve. Twelve people were going to die immediately and, of course, himself. The rest of the people on the floor. How many people were in the building?  
The man was a walking bomb. _

"_Everybody out!" Sherlock cried. People turned to look blankly at him, the bomber spinning around to meet Sherlock's already outstretched fist coming to meet his face. A few people gasped and hurried down the corridor to avoid what they expected to be a fight. _

"_There's a bomb! Everybody out!" Sherlock shouted, grabbing the man's arm. He needed to stop him from getting around to detonating the thing. A man to Sherlock's right spotted a wire poking out under the man's jacket and yelled out, running to the left, causing a swarm of followers to rush after him. Sherlock dodged an elbow coming at his face, twisting the man's arm and ducking under in an attempt to get him into a hold, but the man grunted and moved under his grip, freeing himself._

_Sherlock observed him cooly, appraising him. _

"_You said one person…why? Why say just the one, when you had a bomb planned all along?" Sherlock said, head cocking to the side, talking slowly to allow his mind to plan ahead as it always did. The man laughed._

"_Evacuation is _boring _Mr Holmes. But just one murder? You'd come along for that wouldn't you? To see how it's done before you stopped me. More fun that way" the man wheezed. His voice was husky to begin with, strained. _Probably very ill to begin with, _Sherlock deduced. _

_His eyes caught silver and he jumped at the man, but it was too late, the gun pointing at his forehead. _

"_Run, Mr Holmes" The low wheeze was amused, the man's rotten teeth smiling at him. _No home, no family, he's alone, _Sherlock thought, his mind working well under the pressure. "I want to see you run, like prey from a predator. Run along little rabbit, hop to it, 'else the hawk will get you," he smiled, eyes glittering and Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "I'll give you a whole ten seconds to run for your life". _

_Sherlock's eyes narrowed more._

"_I'd start running Mr Holmes. People like me don't have long to live, you've deduced that. But you?" the man smiled wider, a grin, "I'm going to start counting Mr Holmes". Sherlock glowered for a moment. But he also knew that there was nothing to stop men like this. It reminded him of his first case with John and wondered for a moment if he should mention the so-called "sponsor" to this man, but he'd already begun counting._

"_Ten…nine…"_

"_Who do you work for?"_

"_Eight"_

"Who is it?"

"Better start running, tick tock, tick tock". He was mocking him, singing the words. Sherlock turned, knowing the stairs were the safer option. If he bomb went off and the lift fell, it'd kill him as soon as it hit the ground. He heard the man count seven as he opened the door to the stairs. He raced down the stairs, counting in his head.

Six. _He flung open the next door, checking the corridor, word had got out, people were running, flooding fire exits and escape routes, security running to try and keep the frantic hordes from mass hysteria. It was no use._Five. _Sherlock sprinted down the steps. _Four.

_Sherlock was two floors below. _Three. Two. _He stumbled onto a corridor, people everywhere. _

_The blast shook the building like a rag doll, the jolt throwing Sherlock forwards and he slammed into a woman as the entire building rocked and something, a piece of debris, caught him painfully in the chest. He spluttered, something warm splattering from his mouth. Blood. He coughed hard, his chest aching as he retched. People were screaming and a piece of the ceiling fell down, a crowd of men and women scrambling out of the way. Sherlock didn't look away fast enough to avoid seeing a piece of ceiling tumble on top of an elderly business man. Sherlock remembered the look on his face as he disappeared under rubble. The woman he'd fallen into didn't know him, but she was clutching to him like a life line, screaming and sobbing. Sherlock's mind ran on automatic under the pressure. She was African America, 30 or so years old, secretary here. A pretty floral dress that looked nice on her was crumpled as she gripped the detective like her life depended on it._

_Sherlock knew what to do, it was the only thing he could do. Protect as many people as possible, but there wasn't much _to _do. He put a hand on the woman's head and drew it in to protect it, the woman heaving a sob as he crouched down, protecting her as he drew himself around her, coat pulled around to stop debris from hitting. Then it truly hit as the floor above exploded as the blast travelled down through the floor. _

_People shrieked as there was an almighty crack and suddenly there was no safety as the ceiling suddenly fell in, the entire floor above crashing down at the end of the corridor. Sherlock felt the entire floor tip to his left and he his feet slipped a little, the floor caving in nearby as the ceiling crashed into it. Sherlock had seen people stood there only a second ago and now the left side of both his floor and the one below was gone, eradicated under debris. He felt the woman grab at his shirt and he felt his own heart give a leap as something gave underneath and he felt the sickening feeling of falling fast as the floor dropped in its foundations. The people stood screamed, a man and a young blonde lady, an office romance, slipped and fell, an older man managing to grab them before they slipped away entirely and they stood there, the entire floor slanting down to the chasm of debris below, the floor below theirs, and the one after that, giving away to nothing. One crack and the already steep angle would tip and they'd be pitched into sharp rubble a good way below._

_Sherlock realised he was furthest forwards, the precipice only a metre or so away and he looked back for a moment at the dozen or so people below, still clutching the huddling woman to him as she shook softly, quietly crying. Trying to calm her shaking for fear of it disrupting the ground, he put a hand on her back and did what he'd seen John do, rubbing it softly, talking quietly. He remembered John had soothed him when he'd been ill. He'd be proud to see him using the same technique._

"_Shh," he said softly, "it's okay, we just need to be gentle. We'll be out soon". He didn't know quite what to say, he hoped he was doing it right. The woman stilled a moment and looked up at him with brown eyes, shining with tears. _

"_Alright," Sherlock said louder, addressing the people behind, "The explosion was above us making the ceiling the most delicate area, but the floor is giving way on this side too, making our objective to get to that side". _

_There was a delivery boy, about nineteen, whimpering softly in the corner. _

"_Are you police?" he asked, sniffing, looking as if he dared not move. But then, everyone looked like that. _Keep them calm, _Sherlock thought dully. He nodded._

"_Yes, Detective Inspector Lestrade" he said, taking a stolen badge from his pocket. The moment shocked him and he gasped, his ribs flaring in agony. He doubled over, gasping. Broken, one of them an open fracture. Sherlock had handled these before. _People, _he thought, _need to get them out.

"_Okay," he said, "Gently, I want everyone to move to the right. Slowly." He received a few slow nods and he watched them take their first steps. He looked up, his stomach lurching as he spotted flames through the missing slats in the ceiling and floor above. If that fell… _

_He eased up from his crouch a little, remaining bent though, guiding the woman slowly forwards. They made their way carefully forwards, Sherlock keeping a hand on the woman in front of him constantly. The blonde lady with the office romance was shaking like a leaf a few paces ahead and Sherlock saw it coming before it even happened. Only his luck, he thought as he saw something drop, a piece of wood, fire swarming it, from the ceiling near the woman and she screamed, jumping back in surprise. There was a cracking sound and the floor suddenly gave way, the boards beneath her cracking and she fell, hitting her head as he smacked onto the floor below. The man, her boyfriend, yelled and ran across the floor to get to the stairwell at the end of the corridor, people hurrying after him as there was another almighty crack and another piece of floor gave way._

"_Go!" he cried, pushing the woman forwards. He could see the woman with the blonde hair lying still on the floor below and sighed as he saw the man rushing forwards, regardless of the danger, picking her up. Sherlock wondered if she'd survive._

_Sherlock was jolted to the present when he heard a scream and the woman he'd been holding only just managed to flatten herself against a wall as a piece of ceiling tile dropped where she'd been standing. Sherlock dashed forwards, there in seconds, but it was already too late and Sherlock felt weightlessness, before he hit the floor below him hard and he screamed in agony as he landed on his leg head on. He felt it snap and he yelled, his voice and breath knocked out of him as his head snapped back and hit the floor, dazing him. Vaguely he saw something orange fall down by the computers and he blinked. Orange. Computers. Fire. Sherlock blinked. Fire. Sherlock felt sick as his mind clicked together, his head injury making him feel quesy. He heard a scream and his head tore apart at the sound. God, it _hurt. _It really _hurt.

_He looked up gently, holding back a cry with a gasp as pain exploded in his leg and head. _

"_Please, please, help me!" The voice was a woman's, desperate, pleading…terrified._

"_God, someone, please! Help! Please! Help!" Sherlock's mind slotted back into place and his eyes focused. The woman he'd shielded was right there, right in front of him. He blinked, and saw. She was hanging on, her arms clinging onto wood as she tried desperately not to drop into the chasm below. Sherlock was up like a shot, screaming at the pain, but ignoring it, he'd had worse. He'd been shot, stabbed, blown up, he was a detective after all. And he had John to pach him up. Sherlock blinked back tears. _God, John. _Where was he? _Don't think about John now, _Sherlock snapped in his mind, so loud he thought he'd shouted it out loud._

_He looked at the fire and his mouth dried up as he saw how close the fire was to the monitors and computers on the desks. If they ignited, the explosion would be enough to make the floor drop anyway. _So what? Keep the woman safe, what would John do? _Sherlock crouched before he had time to make a decision, grabbing the woman's hand. He heard her sob, out of both terror and relief, but Sherlock ignored it, pulling as hard as he could to pull her up. His eyes flitted to the fire, his leg screaming at him and he gritted his teeth, but it wasn't enough to stop a scream from forcing its way from his mouth as his weight was forced onto it. The flames were licking at the keyboards and Sherlock felt his heart leap. _You're going to be too late_, he thought. One last pull and the woman fell onto the floor by him, gasping and crying softly, shaking. _

"_Get right down!" Sherlock shouted and then the embers hit the monitors, sweeping over the computers. _

_Sherlock threw himself down as the computers exploded, his body sweeping over the woman and he threw his arms around her, coat drawn around her. The explosion hit his back and he was pushed forwards, all the while protecting the lady, vowing silently that she was going to be okay. Right now, she was all he could save and he was going to make sure that he did it, she was going to be okay if he made certain of it. He tightened his grip as something fell nearby and he felt something drop suddenly on his leg and he howled, screaming in pure agony as it fell onto his broken leg. The woman screamed and trembled and he pulled her tighter. Had to keep someone safe. Just one, John would do that. _

_He felt something slam into the ground and connected with his back, rubble, it was heavy, so heavy it knocked the wind from him and now, oh God, he was stuck and he shouldn't panic, don't panic, but oh God…. _Snap out of it Sherlock, _the John-like part of his brain hissed. He tugged, pulling, shouting in pain and perhaps even a bit of desperation, but he'd deny that to the day he died. _Let's hope that day isn't today Sherlock, _he told himself and he almost laughed at the dry, Mycroft sounding voice. Who else was in his head? He felt crowed with all the voices screaming, or was that his own? Something suddenly cut off all thought and he twisted. Agony. Burning. Oh my god, my legs._

_Sherlock screamed as he felt fire consume his trouser leg, spreading and he could feel it like nothing he'd ever felt, he struggled, screaming all the way, but he was stuck, and _I can't die here. _He tugged at his leg frantically, and he could feel the flesh burn, the woman still clutching to him was stuck under him, crying as he yelled for… help, he supposed. From Mycroft, John…someone. Mycroft could get here, bring help, John was a doctor. They could help, they could stop…this. It was like nothing he'd ever experienced. It _hurt, _like someone was pressing holding a thousand lighters straight to his leg. _

_He put all his energy into one last twist and he felt something dislodge beneath them and the woman screamed when the floorboards cracked, sending them falling down. Sherlock curled around her as they slammed into solidity again and Sherlock felt the back of his ribs break and shatter as something weighing more than he could take landed on his back. His body shook, collapsing, but it was gone, the fire was gone and he wasn't burning anymore and he'd never felt relieved to be suffocating. But then it took over and he realised he was enclosed in a space with concrete and rubble and debris surrounding him like a coffin, a cave that was too tight and he gasped for air, scrambling where he could, but it wasn't far._

_He felt his throat clog up and he glanced around as much as the space would let him, but there was nothing but darkness and nothing, just rock and concrete, like a jail cell fitted all around him. He felt the pulse of the woman beneath him. Unconscious. Sherlock gasped for air and pulled out his mobile, making a call as best he could in the dark, but there wasn't much signal. The thought scared him. He'd had signal outside, it meant…it meant he was buried God knows how deep under rubble. God, he might never be found. He needed help… wanted help. For first time in his life, he _needed _to be found, wanted to be found. He felt like calling out, but knew there was no-one to hear him. He needed someone to bring help, as much as he could get, anyone…everyone. _

_Fumbling around in the darkness, he grabbed at the keys on his phone, his hand finding nothing he wanted. _Come on, come on. _He let out a shuddering sigh of relief as his hand found the right button, the backlight brightening and the phone book coming up. Lestrade could help, police, help. But he needed someone here, John…Mycroft. He swallowed. He wanted John to be here, he just needed to see him, just to measure how much he was really was still alive when his legs felt like they were still on fire and his muscles were clenching and unclenching in pure agony. But time…the woman's breathing was shallow, John would have to call the police and the ambulances, even Lestrade couldn't order that amount of aid for the people from the building…lost in the rubble. Swallowing his pride, he called the one person he knew could help, who Sherlock knew always would._

_His hands shook on his mobile as he called the number and brought the device to his ear. The phone rang three times. _Please pick up, please pick up.

"_Hello?" Sherlock let out a sob of relief as he heard the voice._

"_Hello, Sherlock, is that you?" Sherlock swallowed down another gasp of breath and stuttered out a reply._

"_M-Mycroft…?" _

_Sherlock felt his body stop tensing and he made his call, the phone signal leaving as he tried to finish talking and the phone line went dead. Sherlock left the phone light on, his body tensing in as silence filled his concrete coffin as he resigned himself, laying still, waiting and just hoping that the soft drifting of the woman's breathing wouldn't stop. _Please…get me out of here soon.

* * *

"So?"

"I…I guess it could go either way, I mean, he's bad Mycroft… God, I mean, they can't even risk moving him, he's in pain…" John Watson sighed and looked sympathetically on the older Holmes brother stood in front of him. His sympathy fell on blank stone, Mycroft ignoring him now as he looked in through the little window by the door at his brother who was twitching softly on the bed.

"He's having another dream" Mycroft said blankly, almost as if they were discussing the bad weather or traffic. John nodded just as numbly, not looking in. His heart was already too shattered; it didn't need to see him suffering any more than he could help. He needed to make Sherlock better, not watch him in pain.

Mycroft however stood like a statue, watching, his face drawn and closed in. John appraised him softly. Sherlock had been having nightmares all evening, his state of unconsciousness deep and unshakeable; it'd be some time before he woke again. And all the time Mycroft had been there, watching closely, his phone turned off, silent until he took John out into the corridor a moment ago to ask questions, his sudden outburst looking as if they'd been building up for hours but he'd kept them hidden under his mask of pure stone.

"When we were younger," he said suddenly and John blinked back into reality, "I promised that I'd keep him safe…" He didn't speak for a moment, eyes still fixed on the bed where his brother was mumbling softly in his sleep. "If I did that…then why is he here?"

"You can't protect him from everything," John said, "Especially not when it's Sherlock". Mycroft cocked his head to look at him.

"I know. But I should do better. Try harder."

John smiled softly. "The harder you try, the more it drives him insane," he said. Mycroft said nothing but nodded knowingly.

"You know," John said, "I've known Sherlock less time than any of my other friends, but…he's my best friend. You just can't help but care for him".

"It's good to hear someone say that" Mycroft said quietly, "He's not the most well-liked of individuals"

"He's strong. I know that he can pull through this" John said. Mycroft nodded again.

"I know he is".

Mycroft shook himself. "I'm going to make a call," he said, straightening up. John nodded numbly and allowed Mycroft to walk away stiffly before looking into the room again. _Oh God, _he thought, as he glanced in,_ why is she talking to him?_

* * *

Mrs Holmes watched as her son twisted in the bed, sheets tangling around his forearms. What a useless creature indeed, she thought, how ugly. Useless. She felt her nose curl up in disgust. He had been brought in screaming and she felt herself grin as he twisted uselessly in his sheets. He was what remained of her biggest mistake, her so-called "marriage", he was an accident, an unwanted one at that. And he was just like him, the same cocky, arrogant ways as his father. She felt herself close up inside, heart hardening cruelly as she pursed her lips. She had deleted that part of her life, and now she needed just one more thing to completely eradicate it. She needed those pests out of her life, she didn't want them, and not when they were so…contaminated.

"Spitting image" she whispered under her breath. She scowled at her son. "You should just die and give us all what we want". She snarled at him. "Why _you _became a detective is beyond me… you should have been locked away, away from me". She heard the door slam and turned her head, a furious Doctor Watson re-entering the room after leaving only ten minutes ago with Mycroft. She pouted, folding her arms sulkily.

"Just telling him to get better soon," she said, a smile creeping over her face, "Wouldn't want him to roll over and die now, would we? There'd be a lot less fun in that". John ignored her and she lost interest, closing her eyes and rolling over.

John sat down, his hand subconsciously going to rest on the side of Sherlock's bed, by his leg, but carefully so as not to cause discomfort.

"Just focus on getting better Sherlock, okay? Ignore her. Just, get better soon, okay? We're going to need you out here buddy." He saw Sherlock twist a little and John moved his hand to gently rest on Sherlock's arm. Unexpectedly, Sherlock's hand shot out, seeking the comfort.

"Mycroft…John…please…"

John had to swallow down the lump forming in his throat.

"God…Sherlock…" He felt Sherlock's hand clamp down like a vice to his.

"Please…don't…let go" Sherlock muttered and John bit his lip to keep contained as he watched his friend writhe a little on the bed, pain convulsing in his face.

"I'm not going to let go Sherlock, I'm not. I'm here. I'm not going to go" John comforted, allowing the vice-like grip. He chewed on the inside of his lip. "It's all okay" he lied. Sherlock twisted a little more but the convulsions lessened and John felt himself relax a little.

Mrs Holmes scowled from where she lay, listening. Her stomach hurt, but she ignored it, her blood boiling. Diseases didn't deserve people around them, she thought. Her scowl deepened. _What a rotten bug that had infected her room. She'd have to get rid of it soon, or it'd spread. _She smiled to herself. _Some infections just refused to be cured… she'd fix that. _

* * *

_**A/N **__Okay, so actually, this is the chapter I've been most nervous about. Honestly, I've been nattering worriedly at my friends all day I've been so nervous about posting, it's kinda different to my other chapters. Hope that it's not as worrisome as I thought it'd be for me :S Feel free to review/criticize/ flame if you really disliked it or if you liked it! *Nervous butterflies start rioting* :D Thanks for reading, next update Sunday!_


	19. Talk to me

_**A/N **__Okay guys, so we've got another flashback this chap, sorry for the lateness of the hour over here in the UK, but we've got a nice round-off to last update's flashback this time round :) Hope you like it_

_To all reviewers, alerters and favouriters: Are we all celebrating the fact that Sherlock won two BAFTA's? I certainly am, it gives me a reason to celebrate with reckless abandon, and so: enjoy yourselves also for being awesome reviewers (and of course to congratulate our boys on their BAFTA's, Benedict Cumberbatch should definitely have won best actor, but he'll get it next year *we'll make sure ;P*)_

_**Disclaimer:**__S.O.S. Am in danger. The real Moriarty showed up and I am now held captive by him in a strange warehouse, feeling very scared and alone with only me and my insanity to keep myself company. Must hurry, don't have much time. Have called flying monkeys for assistance and am searching for a suitable place to begin digging escape route, hoping dearly that Sherlock comes to save me._

* * *

_Sherlock Holmes didn't know what it was like to lose track of time. As a detective, he took note of every second, knew when each minute was up, could t__ime an hour no matter what he was doing, wherever he was… he was a detective after all. _

_Which was the reason why he would deny what had happened beneath that rubble till the day he died. Sherlock Holmes didn't lose track of time. He didn't lose track of the seconds, so much so that they started all merging into one, each denomination feeling like a lifetime. And he _did not _tell himself, not once, that he was going to die in there. Or at least, that was what he would tell people. That's what he'd tell them all, when they asked, if John asked so he could write it on his blog, or if Mycroft asked if he was okay. He'd tell them that he'd counted every second calmly, biding his time. He'd say that he didn't wonder once how much oxygen had been in that space, or how long until he started to suffocate, before he'd begin pounding on the walls and screaming to be let out. That was something he didn't need to tell them. They didn't need to know. _

_Sherlock lay under the concrete, his breathing harsh and loud in the space, his phone shedding an eerie light on the makeshift walls that surrounded him. He'd tried escaping, analysing the ways the cracks split up the stone to find points to break through, pounding at the rocks, pushing with his feet, but he couldn't find purchase properly because of the pain and they ended up scrabbling uselessly on the rock. In the end he couldn't move without the hurt shooting through him, too much to bear, and he gave up, gasping, his eyes pricking with pain. He looked at the clock on his mobile, he'd barely called Mycroft five minutes ago, but already it felt like he'd been there for a life._

_He tried putting his hand on the woman again to check her pulse once again, boredom making his analytical mind desperate for some kind of data. He pressed a finger to her neck, gently, but he felt his heart stumble over its own beat when the woman's skin barely pumped against his fingers. He groaned and shook his head, disorientation fully setting in and he began to feel his eyes lose focus. _No, _he thought, _gotta stay awake. _He tried to blink back the grey seeping into his vision, his legs feeling like slow fire. He swallowed, trying to keep bile down. He couldn't be sick, not in here, it was small and cramped and if he passed out, he'd never be found. _

_Sherlock Holmes lost track of time as he slipped into unconsciousness, his mind screaming all the way as it shut off._

* * *

_Mycroft's assistant had called herself Eleanor today, not that it mattered. Nothing mattered right now as she watched her boss, sat so tense it looked painful, tapping his mobile on his thigh as the car sped to the exploded office building. _

_He'd been at the office when his phone had rang._

"_Hello?" Eleanor had looked over, her boss's voice sounding odd as he answered. She frowned a silent question at him, but he ignored it._

"_Hello, Sherlock, is that you?" Eleanor's frown deepened. Sherlock? Why would Sherlock Holmes be calling his brother? She waited, listening and heard Mycroft's voice stutter, snapping her head round to look at him, shocked. Mycroft Holmes didn't stutter._

"_S-Sherlock? Where are you? I'm coming to get you!" Mycroft yelled, but he was already on his way out. "Get me a car," he demanded and Eleanor rushed to get the chauffer, the Bentley pulling up only a moment later. _

"_Sherlock, keep listening to me, don't panic, I'm coming, are you injured?" Mycroft insisted, his phone glued to his ear as he almost ran to the car. Eleanor had never seen Mycroft Holmes worried, never a step short of calm and collected. She never wanted to see it again. She'd be grateful to forget it._

_She watched him give directions to the building like Hell itself was after him, or worse, his brother. She sat down next to him and she saw him hold the phone from his ear as he gave a shuddering breath. _He's injured then_, she thought. It wasn't unusual, but this time was different. _

"_Do not move, I'll be there Sherlock, I'll be there, okay?" Mycroft promised. He stayed on the phone for ten minutes after that, not once letting up and he only gave up after calling three times after the phone line went dead, his entire body tensed._

_She'd never forget his face for as long as she lived when he saw what remained of that building. She'd called the police, the fire brigade, the ambulance. Mycroft had near screamed at her to do it when he couldn't get through to his brother._

"_I can't contact him!" he'd shouted, "So I'm God damn well going to help him!" She'd nodded, calling every 999 service, ordering practically an entire army to rendezvous at the address she'd been given. When they got there however, aid was only just arriving and the wasteland that met them wasn't even the thing that scared her the most. _

_The thing that did scare her the most was the look he had on his face. When he saw it, he wasn't her boss or the civil service or the MI6. He was Mycroft Holmes. She watched in sorrow as his face crumpled and something withered away in his eyes as he scanned the desolation, the only hope glimmering in the dead eyes were desperate to find the one person he still had left in the world. She saw his mouth move silently. _Sherlock. _She'd never forget the way he looked._

"_Sherlock?" he said, his voice so quiet and so low it was dropped into the air, gone as quickly as it came, melting away. "Sherlock?" Louder this time._

_Then the car door was open and he was out, shouting the name, suit tarnished with ash and dust._

"_Sherlock? Sherlock?" They were broken, but screams none the less that came from her boss, her friend. She worked for him yes, but to see Mycroft like this…_

"_Get me the GPS! Get me it!" he cried and she was moving then, scrambling out as she saw him jog to the site, his pace picking up as he got close._

"_Sherlock? Sherlock, where are you?" _

"_There!" Eleanor cried, ignoring the handful of people pulling up in cars behind them, looking only at the GPS screen on her mobile. Mycroft had fitted Sherlock's coat with a tracking device years ago, Sherlock allowed it in return for the lack of bugs in his bedroom. She thanked the Lord that it was still tucked away there, working feebly. _

_Mycroft looked to where she was pointing and moved over the rubble, his normally pristine suit and tie dirtied as he crouched, and then, despite the footsteps of the police and firemen clattering over to the site, despite his pride and his arrogance, Mycroft Holmes got down on his knees, and dug._

_There were a handful of EMTs there, firemen putting out the flames, dots of survivors being led away and in the midst was the great Mycroft Holmes, kneeling to find his brother in the dust. His hands scraped at the rock and Eleanor stepped forwards as she saw blood spring from newly torn gashes and she gasped as Mycroft continued to dig with his bare hands, pushing aside rubble and rock, shouting himself hoarse all the time as he scraped away at it._

_He yanked aside some piping, ignoring the moment when the firemen came running over, ignoring how the EMTs told him to stop, stop because his hands were torn and they were covered in blood, ignored it when they told him to calm down. He ignored it even when the firemen helped him to lift the huge slab of concrete from where it was balanced between some railing and collapsed flooring, heavy enough to make 5 men grunt with effort. Mycroft had ducked under it when more men joined and he ignored it all. He felt his vision decrease as he ducked his head under the slab, into the darkness and he choked on it, how it must have felt to be trapped, in here. He looked down, hand searching for that oh-so-familiar coat he knew his brother would be wearing. He'd bought him that coat. It had been a present, his birthday…it had been his 21__st__ birthday._

"_Sherlock?" he screamed and that's when he heard it, a slight groan in the dark and then the slab was lifted and light flooded. Something, God it sounded like an animal, screamed and Mycroft dropped down to level ground and… His brother lay, panting in agony, keening in pain as Mycroft felt his entire life come dropping down._

"_Oh my God, Sherlock" he whispered and he crouched, ever so tenderly, suddenly gentle hands reaching out to see, to feel, if he was real…if this was real._

_Sherlock groaned when Mycroft's hand touched him, and screamed when the EMT's gently moved his weight a little, removing the woman beneath him. Words tangled in the air, but Mycroft didn't hear them._

"_Sherlock?" Mycroft said, his voice low and feeble. Sherlock blinked slowly, eyes almost closed in pain and exhaustion._

"_Stay with me Sherlock," Mycroft said, "Stay with me" Sherlock squinted, uncomprehending. _

"_My…croft?" he groaned and Mycroft felt a lump form in his throat._

"_Yes Sherlock, yes it's me. There's an ambulance Sherlock," Mycroft said, putting a hand to Sherlock's head, brushing the hair soothingly "I'm here Sherlock, just hold on". _

"_Hurts" Sherlock croaked, unable to form any other words before his body convulsed and he cried out. Mycroft made sure he couldn't see him when he wiped away the tears threatening to spill from his eyes. Mycroft Holmes was strong, he didn't cry. _

_He shuffled closer and wrapped an arm around his brother. He looked down, seeing Sherlock's burnt legs and had to swallow, hard. _

"_P-please" Sherlock sobbed and Mycroft held him closer as his brother tried to beg him, beg him to make it stop, to make the pain go away. _God, _Mycroft pleaded, _no. _This wasn't supposed to happen, brothers weren't supposed to have to hold their brothers when they writhed in agony, they shouldn't have to listen when their brother asked them to make the pain stop because it was killing them. _Please God, make it stop.

_The ambulance pulled up and they helped lift him onto the stretcher. He'd screamed, he'd screamed so badly and Mycroft had to wipe at his eyes before they saw him…fall apart. _

"_Are you riding in the ambulance?" a nurse asked him, and he flinched, nodding. He didn't want to, didn't want to see it, this was his fault for not being there, but he had to be there. He had to be there or Sherlock would never be the same. He clambered in and he blinked back wetness in his eyes when Sherlock reached to grab his hand as they covered his legs with a blanket. His grip was tight, too tight, but Mycroft held on, he held on like he'd never, ever let go, and he almost for a moment convinced himself that he never would again. He should have been there before._

_Sherlock screamed and cried out when they tried to bandage his ribs and Mycroft had had to hold him down, hands planted firmly on his shoulders to keep him steady, his hands slippery with the blood that… Jesus, why was it there? Mycroft couldn't think, couldn't remember if it was his or Sherlock's or both together. _

"_We're nearly there Sherlock, we're nearly there, almost there," Mycroft said, his voice never stopping the entire way there, "There's a case, a really good one, I could let you have it if you'd want it. Triple homicide, it was MI6 business, but the files, I could get you them. You'd like it, it's…legwork" Mycroft gave a half-hearted chuckle at the familiar prod, and he felt Sherlock's grip on his hand tighten. _

"_I could give you the photos, the interview scripts, whatever you need," he continued. He had to keep talking, keep him awake. "42 year old male suspect, prints on the knife, but no motive, an alibi that checks out, the works". Sherlock gave a groan, but he was awake, he was listening. _

_Mycroft Holmes kept up a litany of speech all the way there, Sherlock remembered that. Even in the hospital when it was too loud and it hurt and it made him shout like an animal, he remembered what Mycroft said. Remembered him calling John and shouting at the nurses to get him a bed, and it would have made Sherlock laugh if he'd have been okay, Mycroft knew it would. Sometimes, when Sherlock was a teen and Mycroft was in the youth council, he'd yell and boss people around, just to make Sherlock quietly giggle to himself. He did it sometimes, even now, but Sherlock pretended not to laugh, even when he couldn't help it and did anyway. It was just so comical how they thought he was so scary. _

_Sherlock couldn't remember much else, but he remembered that Mycroft stayed with him until he passed out after the IC ward. He'd never stopped talking to him._

* * *

Sherlock blinked against the strong lighting and groaned. It was bright, too bright, and he felt oddly numb. _Morphine, _he thought dully, _lots of it. _He didn't make the mistake of looking at his injuries this time, which made it worse; it had made him feel sick.

"He said he wouldn't be gone long, he was in the canteen…the food is awful. Not that you'd know if you visited with John, you never eat. I tell you too, but you don't. I could perhaps hire someone, a nanny perhaps? She'd feed you… mind you…she wouldn't last long I imagine with your habits".

Someone was talking. Sherlock was sure of it; it was feeding through, a continuous sound hooking Sherlock down to reality.

"M-Mycroft?" he whispered and the sound stopped. He groaned, willing it to continue. The beating of that blasted heart monitor was driving him crazy, the talking drowned it out. The voice stammered and continued, sensing what he wanted. He frowned. Not Mycroft then, he pondered, Mycroft didn't stammer.

"S-Sherlock? Are you awake? Sherlock? It's Mycroft," the voice said.

It took a moment for Sherlock to realise that there was a question in there; the sound simply fell over him. He groaned again, shifting and hissing in the pain, but he managed a slow nod.

"Mycroft?" he said again, feeling stupid, a first for his great mind, and something that thoroughly frustrated him. Not only was he injured, but now he was repetitive too. Dull.

"Yeah, it's me, Sherlock, are you in pain, do you need more morphine? I can get the doctor to-" Sherlock shook his head.

"Do you need anything?" Mycroft asked again and Sherlock could barely believe it was him. He sounded so…quiet, soft. Sherlock shook his head again. Silence returned once more and Sherlock was about to ask, ever so quietly, if Mycroft could say something else when he did.

"Anyway, about that nanny," he said. He carried on talking, sometimes softly teasing him, but there was nothing really in the jokes. He continued on, and Sherlock wondered how long it had taken to tune his ears to that, how long Mycroft had sat there. And he also wondered how, after all those years Mycroft had been sitting by him already, how was it that he had never listened like this? It seemed odd to think that after all those years; it had taken one large bomb to put them on the same frequency.

* * *

"Code blue, get nurses in here!" John Watson yelled.

A moment ago, he'd been laughing. A moment ago he'd been sat with Sherlock and Mycroft and he'd never felt so relieved. He'd come back with a bottle of water and some coffee, the former for Mycroft, and had almost dropped them both when he'd heard Mycroft's little chuckle, and then, to his utter surprise, seen Sherlock…awake. Sure, he was barely awake, but he could croak out the odd word, his dry humour making the one word work enough to get his brother to chuckle a little when John walked in.

John's mouth hung open in both shock and pure, utter relief. He felt like hugging the man.

"Look like … a…fish…" Sherlock managed to make out as John gaped and John laughed in surprise, closing his mouth.

"Thank God," he sighed and relief washed over him like a wave. They'd been laughing, talking to him, they'd been happy. Sherlock for one seemed more than relieved to see John and hadn't complained when John had berated him for a full five minutes on his recklessness.

"Mother…hen" Sherlock had croaked and John's anger had left him and he gave a huff of laughter. That's when it happened.

"Oh my God" John said. Mycroft looked at him, laughter immediately dying from his face, a question already on his lips.

"Code blue, get nurses in here!" John yelled, launching himself up from the desk he was sat on and running to the other bed. Mycroft frowned, then his deductive skills kicked in and he saw what John had seen. Mother's monitor. The nurses were barely in the room when she started to seize. Mycroft stared, a moment ago, things had been okay. They'd been simple. He saw Sherlock turned his head and he put a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't look," Mycroft said. He had to protect Sherlock, he had to. Standing up, he watched as three nurses flooded in.

"She's going into shock, she's seizing! Get me diazepam in here!" John shouted, casting a quick look at Mycroft. Mycroft nodded, his body numb. He watched as his mother shook on the bed, the suddenness making Mycroft feel sick and he wanted to look away, but he couldn't, he had to make sure everything was okay; he had to look after his brother.

The seizure lasted two minutes, forty seconds, Mycroft counted, and when John looked at him when it had finally stopped, he was pale and sickly looking.

"Mycroft-" he said.

"I'm fine". John watched him closely as Mycroft filled up a cup of water for himself, drinking it slowly.

"Mycroft, seizures aren't good news…it could be the Doxapram we gave her, she's had one before. It could be…it could be prior liver problems that we didn't know about, the Doxapram would make that worse…if she's bleeding internally then she could be going into shock…the seizures and…"

"Live failure," Mycroft stated, "It makes bleeding likely, doesn't it? She's gone into shock". John seemed to consider how much Mycroft was willing to take and sighed.

"We need to find the bleed Mycroft or…" he trailed off.

"Or?"

"She's very sick Mycroft, she's not stable" John admitted finally. Mycroft scoffed.

"They knew, didn't they? Those doctors. They didn't realise what putting Sherlock here would do and now they're stuck. They can't move them, can they?" Mycroft said, venom on his tongue. John stayed silent. He didn't want to hurt Mycroft any more than he'd want to hurt his brother.

"Can they?" Mycroft shouted, his fist pounding once on the counter top. John sighed.

"No, they can't. They're both too sick…I'm sorry Mycroft, I really am," John said, his stomach sinking as he went to sit beside Sherlock. "I'm sorry" he said.

Mycroft seemed to consider then straightened.

"Look after him John. I'll be back in an hour or so, keep talking with him" Mycroft said. He needed to get out, get some air. He took a glance at his mother as he moved out and swallowed as he realised: this was it. His only family, and here they were, too sick to move in a hospital they should never have had to have been in if he'd have taken better care of them. Of Sherlock. He sighed.

"I know," he said. John looked up.

"Sorry?" he said, breaking off from his low talk with Sherlock on something about the recorded episodes of Jeremy Kyle they still had to watch, how he'd been chuffed the other day to work out a girl's real boyfriend from her string of lovers (he was then corrected by Sherlock saying that none of them were really her lovers, their descriptions told him that, much to John's disgruntlement)

Mycroft stood a moment before answering.

"Thank you, for coming…and helping" he said. John smiled and nodded, returning to his conversation with Sherlock before his flatmate got annoyed with his lack of reply. Letting his shoulders sag, Mycroft let the doors swing closed as he walked from the room.

* * *

_**A/N **__So I can imagine some happy mother-haters out there, no? :D Don't worry, I hate her too, she just refuses to play nice or fair with even me, and I created her! What can you do these days? *Shrugs* Finally a smidgem of come-uponce ;P Okay, just a note, this week, I posted on my profile whether there was going to be a double update or not, so if you want to see how it's getting along or post-dates or my future plans for fics or whatever, I'm going to be putting them up on my profile page to let you guys know, since you're all so awesome :)  
Thanks again and I hope to update again soon!_

_After note: After the fantastic spotting skills of manonairs, I have replaced FBI with the correct term MI6 :) I'm British myself so should have remembered, (lol, I was actually explaining the difference between the two to my mum the other day, as well as the CIA), but late night typing makes me mind do crazy things, so thanks to manonairs, the fic is a little less crazy :D_


	20. News

_**A/N: **__Don't worry, I'm still alive, Moriarty did not kill me! Some of you may or may not know that this weekend I went to the MCM expo in London (it's a film/comic/anime etc. convention) and only returned this evening, therefore I've been laptop-less for a whole weekend :O So, apologies for the late update, I'll make it up to you, I swear, name your price! (As long as it's nothing rude, potentially limb removing or costs over the £40 in my purse :/ ) My stupid procrastination and distractions :/ It's taken multiple reminders about you guys waiting for me and some large amounts of cheerleading from fellow reviewer and friend emloha to get me to buckle down and quit getting distracted :D  
__With any luck I will definitely be making it up to you with special updates this week :P Meaning, yes the plural of the word, 2 updates minimum I swear! :D  
__  
For all reviwers, alerters and favouriters, as you may have read above, this week, the update is all on you! Without you guys this chap may have been even later, so I have to thank you guys so much! I was like "Have to get it out, people relying on me" Lol :) Dunno how many people, but oh well :D So yeah, you guys deserve the credit for this chap so give yourselves a huge round of applause and a big bowl of ice cream (and a hug).  
And :O 20 chapters? You guys motivate me so much :) This, as I've told my friends often, was never actually planned to be so long, but it's taken me away (Help me, the plot bunnies are keeping me hostage in my own home) and I'm coming up with so much more every day, it's such great fun! And now I've found another direction to head in too that's getting a bit of a reveal at the end of this chapter, so I'm very excited indeed!_

_**Disclaimer**: Freedom is mine! After a daring rescue from emloha and 98Shaddowolff98 (plus a friend) involving an ice-cream baited trap, a shark and an edible cactus, I was saved from the clutches of the evil Moriarty and on my way out, (led by a legion of flying monkeys that haven't been fed for a week), I grabbed an important looking document. Surely these are Moriarty's own plans to kidnap Sherlock? Haha, I will no doubt have Sherlock in my clutches in no time!_

* * *

_Sherlock is awake now, I can finally breathe out. Things have been horrible around here; it's a relief to see him awake. Still at the hospital though, obviously. And we all know about it too. Even with severe __injuries, Sherlock has been telling us constantly how much hospitals aggravate him! I've had to apologise to four nurses in two days! But I'm honestly just happy to see him alright.  
A__nyway, I'm treating him mostly. Mycroft is being protective.  
__-John Watson. _

_Omg, is he going to be okay? Why didn't you text me? Are you okay?  
__-Harry Watson_

John stared at the miniature version of his blog on his phone and the message from Harry beneath it. Mycroft had ended up telling him how to get internet onto his phone and he'd finally figured out what to write. The only problem was, it also meant the customary message from Harry. He sighed. The last person he needed to talk to right now was his alcoholic sister. He flinched at his own thoughts. _Alcoholic. _It was like a permanent addition to her title now. John remembered when Mycroft had come to talk to Sherlock at the flat. All John could think about was how cowardly he' been to never talk to Harry like that. He'd been hypocritical enough to force Sherlock to, but when it came to his own sister, he'd never done anything of the sorts.

Sure, he'd told his dad about it on the moments he was sober, not that he listened. But when he had been sober, he'd told him to talk to her…and he never had done. And now here he was, too many years down the line to remember when exactly they'd stopped being close, and yet it still felt too short a time to swallow his pride and pick up the phone. She'd done it. Not that she still didn't drink, because she did, John knew that. He still got the texts late at night or early in the morning from her, drunkenly telling him about her night and how drunk she probably was. But then, he wondered how much he'd helped her get out of that. He'd tried, but after a while he'd felt like giving up like he'd eventually given up on dad and he'd took off to the army after what felt like the hundredth relapse. He'd got sick of her going back, even when he'd tried his hardest, and maybe that's why he didn't talk any more, even when she did call.

He rubbed his eyes. They were sore, he'd barely slept, and now guilt was adding to it as well. He looked wearily across at Mycroft, who'd been sat like a statue all night over in the corner, staring intently at Sherlock's heart monitor, as if he was the only thing keeping the line moving, making the beeping keep steady while Sherlock finally managed to get to sleep. John was sat sullenly next to him, feeling like a dead weight while he watched his friend's chest rise and fall labouredly.

"Trouble on the blog John?" Mycroft suddenly asked.

John blinked, focusing his eyes properly for what felt like the first time in hours and was surprised to see just how bad Mycroft looked, the usually perfect appearance looking ruffled and his eyes were dull from the lack of sleep. John shrugged but Mycroft simply raised an eyebrow. John sighed and nodded.

"Yeah, I guess," John admitted. He felt too tired to explain, or maybe he just wanted to evade the inevitable questions about Harry's drinking habits? He admitted to being quite ashamed, but never to the point of embarrassment. If anything, he never told people because, like him, they'd judge her. They'd hear the words "drinking problem" and that'd be it. Despite everything, he knew Harry was a good person.

"Your sister I take it?" Mycroft commented, and John had just about enough energy to notice as his own mouth fell open. He was about to ask how Mycroft had known, but then decided against it quickly. He was too tired to follow along on any deductive streams today, especially now as the clock had only just reached 7am.

Looking down at Sherlock, John didn't say anything for a while.

"Yeah," he finally managed. He opened his mouth as if to say something else, but closed it again. He hoped Mycroft hadn't noticed, but then, Mycroft noticed everything, he was a Holmes after all. The older brother let his gaze settle on John for a minute or so, but John's missing sentence was never spoken and Mycroft let it go. Whatever John had to say, it would come out sooner or later, to him or Sherlock. And if it didn't, then there was always time.

"He'll probably be waking up soon," John said, "He only slept till seven yesterday". Mycroft nodded and got up.

"Coffee?" he said. John nodded, but his focus was on Sherlock, watching his friend carefully, and Mycroft ignored how close he was sitting to Sherlock.

He smiled, wanting to make some form of dry joke about "well, they do live together", but imagined that Sherlock wouldn't be very appreciative of it if he woke up and heard about it. But then, teasing Sherlock was his priority as big brother wasn't it? Or at least, when he needed it. Sherlock might not understand, but sometimes banter was perhaps what he needed, sometimes it was attention and sometimes it was care, or even just being left alone. It had taken Mycroft years to understand that. And besides, Dr Watson seemed to genuinely care for his brother. Mycroft didn't know what to call their relationship really. It was beyond friendship, they were too different to be brothers (despite Sherlock's denial, Mycroft really did have quite a few things in common with his little brother, from deduction all the way to his love of classical violin. Sherlock had played quite a variety of pieces for Mycroft when they were younger). They weren't "together" as people would say, although it was fun to tease, and in a way, they were so different it was odd to see them fit together so well. In all honesty, Mycroft didn't know what to call them, but they just…fit.

Leaving Sherlock in good hands, Mycroft travelled down the hospital hallways. He wrinkled his nose at the still prominent odour of disaster lingering in the air as he made his way past the reception to the coffee machine, hearing something as he passed the reception desk.

"No, Detective Inspector, I'm a Detective Inspector for Scotland Yard. I'm here to see Sherlock Holmes," a voice was saying, slowly, clearly, as if expecting the woman not to understand. But then, by the look of both the Detective Inspector and the receptionist, it seemed as if they'd been through this multiple times before.

"Do you have identification?" the woman at the desk asked and Mycroft watched as the familiar D.I take a long breath to control himself and flashing his badge in her direction.

"I'm sorry, but visiting hours aren't till 9am, but if you'd like to wait-"

"Listen, I was here the day of the explosion, I was in the police car that followed him in! There was him and another woman, I need to know the doctors they are under and if I can see the male please," the man argued and Mycroft recognised him. _Ah yes, D.I Lestrade. _He been there faster than the other police cars, Mycroft had remembered later. Mycroft wondered if it was simply because of his status as D.I, or if it was more explained by the fact that he'd followed Sherlock's ambulance to the hospital and had argued like crazy alongside Mycroft to get both Sherlock and the lady he'd been with, into beds.

The receptionist looked at her computer. "The lady is with Dr Dent in 448 and you'd be wanting room 414… if visiting times were open, that were," she said, pointedly making the second part of her sentence heard. Lestrade appeared to be taking long, deep breathes in order to maintain his calm.

"This case is very important…" Lestrade began.

"The doctor told me it was fine," Mycroft intercepted, strolling forwards. He knew better than anyone that the best thing to give Sherlock right now was information, especially in the form of a D.I for him to pick on and make fun of, which he most certainly would at the first chance he was given.

"And you must be…?" the receptionist asked. Mycroft allowed a dark stare to flit past his eyes.

"Sherlock Holmes' brother, Mycroft Holmes," Mycroft stated dangerously. The D.I looked at him in surprise.

"Sherlock has a brother?" he asked, shocked. Mycroft shot him a glare too and he shut up.

"I'm on your little computer system if you'd be bothered to check. I wouldn't like to see the mess left after you'd been sacked should you have to take up this matter with your boss," Mycroft said coldly. The woman paled.

"Go right on through," she whispered.

Lestrade looked at Mycroft in pure shock and managed a squeak of a thank you before managing to scuttle down towards 414. Mycroft gave a tight nod to the woman on the desk and sent a text for his assistant to get here as soon as possible. She'd gone home to sleep for a few hours on Mycroft's orders but he was beginning to feel strange at not having someone following behind as always, he felt almost vulnerable to not have someone there. Expecting her within the hour, he went on the search for coffee.

* * *

Sherlock was mumbling in his sleep again, twitching slightly. John felt his stomach twist at the sight and scooted his chair closer to put his hand on Sherlock's arm comfortingly.

"Not…not safe," Sherlock muttered, "John… where…?" John swallowed thickly, guilt making him feel nauseous. Either Sherlock had been wondering where he was because he had been worried about his safety, or he'd needed his help. Strangely, neither option felt more appealing, a huge weight of guilt still making John feel terrible.

"I'm so sorry Sherlock," John managed, throat dry.

"John…" The word was practically a whimper and John gripped Sherlock's arm in reassurance.

"I'm here Sherlock, I'm here now, it's okay," he croaked and he felt Sherlock relax a little under his arm.

John quietly reassured Sherlock until he woke twenty minutes later, eyes bleary with both pain and medication.

"You look gorgeous," Sherlock managed, giving a small smile as he awoke. John could only imagine how sleep deprived and dishevelled he looked, but then looking at the nasty bruises on Sherlock's face and the stitch-requiring cuts on the top of the consultant's head, he imagined he looked like a cover artist for GQ by comparison.

"I could say the same for you," John chuckled.

"Touché" Sherlock said, "Where's Mycroft?" John looked around the room, as if half expecting to have not noticed if the older Holmes had slipped in while he'd been with Sherlock.

"Went to get coffee I think," John said. Sherlock nodded.

"Hope he gets me some," he said, but the end of the sentence ended in a wince and he gritted his teeth against a surge of pain that was coming through the considerable amount of morphine he was on.

It'd been two days since he'd first woken up, and more pain medication than John could count, but Sherlock could only ever be awake for no more than an hour and a half at most, despite being alert when he was conscious. John had managed to take a look at Sherlock's legs himself, and despite himself, had been thanking God, even with Sherlock's no doubt intolerable pain, as, against the appearances, the burning wasn't as extensive as the amount of cuts on Sherlock's legs. This had covered them in blood and although they were grievously injured, it put Sherlock just below the line for any extensive amounts of skin grafting, most of the wounds sufficing to stitches. All taken into account though, there were more stitches to be put in than John had thought possible on one patient, and with the burns running interwoven with the deep gashes, it'd be painful to administer anything now.

"We need to wait, keep him on meds till we can deal with all of his injuries," his doctor had said when he'd discussed it with John. He'd agreed, but it didn't mean he had to like it.

"You're not getting any caffeine on these meds Sherlock," John warned jokingly, "You'd be bouncing off the walls". Sherlock raised an eyebrow and was about to say something in retort but was stopped by a knock at the door.

"Er…come in?" John said, frowning. The door opened and John stared in surprise as Lestrade came bustling in. The D.I stopped by the bed of Sherlock's sleeping mother, but then shook himself and came over.

"I came to see how you were getting on," Lestrade said by way of announcing himself. Sherlock gave Lestrade a sceptical look and raised an eyebrow.

"Ah Lestrade," he said, and he sounded almost as if he was back at the flat, condescending the officer as he always did, "I take it that you have yet to track down the man who hired the bomber then?"

Lestrade didn't notice the tired waver in Sherlock's voice like John did, the ex-soldier gauging the amount of time Lestrade had left before Sherlock was practically incoherent, or asleep. John wanted the Inspector out of the room before that happened.

"Um… there was a higher man?" Lestrade said and Sherlock tutted.

"Yes, of course, he didn't fit the crime at all, he was hired… he was probably someone suicidal looking for money for his family, we need to find the man who hired him of course," Sherlock said quickly, catching Lestrade of guard.

"Oh, er, yeah, of course, but how?" Lestrade said, "We don't have a lead"

"Someone rich with connections to the offices that were targeted. He also hired the killer we were tracking a few weeks ago, talk to everyone that killer knew. I need information Lestrade!" Sherlock demanded, John barely able to hide his smirk. It was nice to see Sherlock running the majority of Scotland Yard again.

"Nice to see you're okay," Lestrade muttered sarcastically as he sent a text to, no doubt, one of his subordinates.

Sherlock looked up at that. "You were behind us…I remember," Sherlock said suddenly, "In the police car… What happened to her?" Lestrade looked up from his phone.

"Sorry?"

"The woman. The woman I came in with, where is she? Is she safe?" Sherlock commanded. John blinked in surprise, but then masked it as he remembered his own experiences. A lot of the time, back when he was in the war, it was often about saving just one person, to make it all worthwhile. John didn't know the lady Sherlock was talking about, but if she arrived in the ambulance with him, he could imagine_. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes you see the battlefield. _John remembered Mycroft saying that the day he first met him. John couldn't help but wonder just how true that was.

"Room 448 apparently," Lestrade said, "Sherlock…they think she could be in a coma".

Sherlock seemed to freeze and John closed his eyes as he felt his stomach sink. The person you save… well, it's the thing that saves you, John thought as he watched Sherlock, you need to hear that you've saved just that one, or else you'll never feel in control. And John knew exactly how much Sherlock needed control. Sherlock didn't move for a long time. He felt responsible, like the woman was his priority…and she was in a coma? John could only imagine what that felt like.

"Her name is Tamila Mills. Not married, thirty-seven years old…" Lestrade trailed off, "I'm really sorry Sherlock…the doctors are doing what they can."

Sherlock nodded and shook himself, façade falling into place once again, but John could see through it even easier than usual and he could also tell that Lestrade's time with a conscious Sherlock was fast coming to an end.

"You need to rest," John said.

"I'm fine"

"Sherlock."

Sherlock glared at John but eventually nodded. Lestrade stood up, giving them both a nod.

"I'll look for that profile you gave us Sherlock; I'll tell you if anything crops up. And um, Sherlock?" Lestrade said, Sherlock looking up at him from where John had been fussing, "Good to see you're okay". Sherlock nodded, only half paying attention as Lestrade gave John a "good-luck" smile as he left. As soon as the door closed, the façade dropped and Sherlock slumped into his pillows.

"I failed," he said simply. John blinked at the sudden defeatist attitude that came over his friend.

"Sherlock, she'll be fine, it could take a while but-"

"There have been cases when they never wake up John," Sherlock said plainly. John rolled his eyes.

"Rarely, and hardly ever after an experience like this. Listen to me, don't worry or you'll get worse yourself okay?" John cautioned, worry setting in.

"I should probably check on her information…" Sherlock said quietly.

John felt his heart skip a beat. If Sherlock didn't give himself time to recover then no doubt he'd make his condition worse.

"I'll take you see her later," John blurted, "The end of this week". He knew he'd end up delaying the time, but he was ready to use any tactic necessary to keep Sherlock safe and where he was. Luckily, Sherlock looked too tired to disagree, a sight John didn't often see…and hoped he'd never see again.

"I worry about you too, so don't do anything stupid" John warned.

"Why…would I do that?" Sherlock breathed; sleep already halfway into his drug addled body.

"'Cos you're an idiot" John retorted and Sherlock managed a weak chuckle.

"Mother hen," he muttered and John snorted.

"I have to be with you," John smirked and Sherlock gave him a small smile.

His head turned to where Mrs Holmes was sleeping.

"She…she won't be…awake when… I wake up, will she?" Sherlock said softly and John realised how young and small Sherlock sounded. He shook his head and put his hand lightly on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Don't worry okay, it'll be alright," John promised. It was a promise to himself too. Sherlock nodded softly, satisfied, his eyes drooping, and he was asleep a full fifteen minutes before Mycroft came back, assistant in tow. He looked over at John who nodded at him, deciding to fill him in later and settled back to watch Sherlock's heart monitor with all the intensity that Mycroft had last night.

* * *

Matthew Leach liked seeing the smoke rising from the office block a few streets away from where he was. He liked to feel the shocks shaking the ground. It was all just a sign of another victory, another battle won. He smiled, looking out from the huge windowed front to his lush apartment. _Another plan carried out like clockwork. _The hired bomber had done his job. He'd be sending the money to the man's daughter anonymously tonight. His smile continued as he sipped from his wine glass. He felt his Blackberry buzz and he opened his text.

_Sherlock Holmes was in the building. Been sent to hospital.  
__Have a good time._

Now _this _was the reason he hired informants. He grinned.

_Oh, this was going to be fun._

* * *

_**A/N **__:O Random OC bad guy to shake things up :P Yeah, I just enjoy hurting our poor Sherlock :)  
Okay, so there was a fair amount of references to certain things in there, more than usual anyway. A Sherlock Holmes 2009 movie quote is in there quite blatantly glaring at us all (it was just so fitting!) and __98Shaddowolff98, I put an intentional Hitchhikers reference in there, may or may not be easy to spot (methinks not so much, but then, you noticed the 42 thing :D ) And if Monika Watson is reading this (again…grr to you Watson, I will have words with you at school) then there was a certain line near-ish the end that was inspired (in fact, mostly quoted from) by the usual retorts we have to do with mother henning :P  
__Anyway, updates will hopefully be Fast and Furious-ly done my friends, with any luck. Hope this chapter went okay (if a little short :/ )_


	21. Wrong

_**A/N**__I treat my laptop very badly, and I think last night was the top off for the abuse my poor laptop (Arthur) has endured. For the goodness-knows-how-many time, I feel asleep while writing, leaving me a guilt ridden wreck when I got up. In order to rectify this issue (dammit, I should just not sleep!) I am proposing a "Triple Whammy" of sorts. Meaning that I will be updating today, tomorrow and Monday. Kinda like a spiteful message to the sleep centre of my brain ;) But yeah, hope that's enough :S It's also a little late because I can only just figure out this new profile layout! Gah!_

_Anyway, moving on. To all those amazing reviewers/alerters/favouriters who give me the strength to carry on, you guys inspire and motivate me like a carrot apparently motivates a donkey (? Does it really? I've never tried it :D)_

_And also, this chapter has warnings :O One or two minor-ish swear words in this chapter from a very bad man and the same said man has another warning: Now, coming from a thorough English woman myself, there is a line in here that does poke quite a bit of fun at us Brits (for the Brits reading) This is entirely fun since not only do I think it's necessary to add a bit of spunk to the new character but also cos I do think a bit of self depreciating humour goes a long way :D Lol, maybe that's just me :D I in no way mean to offend ANYONE by putting this in, it is very simply a bit of fun. Lol, it makes me worry, but as long as no-one takes offense then all is good. If you do then feel free to flame me and throw toilet paper at my batcave at your will. _

_**Disclaimer: **__Pizza receipts. The file was his pizza receipts. Margarita from Dominoes Pizzas last Wednesday and a pepperoni from Pizza hut on Friday. Pizza receipts. And this is the evil genius we've all come to fear? I feel cheated._

* * *

"John?"

The voice was small and John didn't hear it the first time.

"John?" John blinked and looked up, eyes squinting in the darkness of the room, the moonlight through the blinds showing 12:30 on the clock on the wall. He rubbed the heel of his palm into his eyes and blinked away the bleariness in them. He must have fallen asleep.

"John, are you asleep?" came the whisper again, a little louder this time. John shook his head in the dark, but it was probable that it was too dark to see the gesture anyway.

"No Sherlock," John said, missing out the fact that he had been a moment ago. He didn't want Sherlock to know that he'd woken him. There was a moment's silence where John thought the detective hadn't heard him.

"Are you okay, are you in pain?" John asked, a little louder. He heard Sherlock shift a little, sighing softly.

"No John, I'm fine," Sherlock said, and John was almost certain it was a lie, but he decided to press the matter later.

Again, there was a silence, longer this time, and although it didn't feel awkward, John could feel rather than see that Sherlock was edgier than normal, as if he wanted to ask something but wasn't sure how to say it.

"Sherlock, what were you going to ask me?" John asked eventually, when it seemed as if Sherlock had lost the will to ask. Silence again.

"Sherlock?"

"Is it painful?" he asked suddenly. John frowned, unsure of what Sherlock was referring to.

"What she has…is it painful?" Sherlock said, and this time John could just make out the faint gesture Sherlock made in the dark towards his mother. John paused, considering. If he was to be honest, the thing he would really love to say was "I hope so" after everything she had put his best friend through, but as John thought about it, it was the very same best friend that was stopping him from saying it. Stress was certainly not what Sherlock needed right now, not when all John wanted was for him to get better.

He could feel Sherlock watching him, the cool, calm gaze feeling faked and pressured.

"I don't know," John said, finally. Sherlock seemed to raise an eyebrow but John couldn't see in the dark.

"She got worse," Sherlock said, "when I got here." John blinked at him.

"What?" John's voice was pure disbelief. Surely Sherlock couldn't think that this was _his _fault?

"I-I'm not the reason that she got worse," Sherlock continued, the words straining to get out, "am I?" John felt himself gape openly at his flatmate.

"Of all the things you've ever said Sherlock, that is the most unfounded, illogical thing that's ever come from your mouth," John said firmly.

"Why? Why is it? I arrived, and her condition worsened. Is it not logical to deduce from the facts that I am a probable factor in her illness?" Sherlock stated, seemingly convinced of his deduction.

"Sherlock, listen, you have no idea what you're talking about," John reasoned firmly, "For once, leave it in my areas of expertise okay? I know what I'm talking about and I can tell you that you have _nothing _to do with it. You hear me? Nothing".

Sherlock seemed to consider that. "Are you sure?" he asked, apparently less certain now that John had begun picking holes in his allegedly infallible theory. _Not like Sherlock at all, _John thought and wondered if the knock in confidence had anything to do with the woman Sherlock had tried saving at the building. They hadn't heard of any change in her condition since they found out.

"I'm sure," John promised and saw the moonlight reflect on Sherlock's sceptical eyes as John shifted a little in his chair, silver light flooding past him. He sighed. "Do you trust me?" John said. Sherlock only hesitated a moment as his always distrustful, always analysing mind snapped into place.

"Yes John," he said.

"Then I promise you that I am telling the truth and I am sure."

Sherlock wriggled into a sitting position, John putting a hand under his arm to help him sit up in the no-doubt uncomfortable hospital bed. They sat in companionable silence for a long time, a very long time, John noted. The moonlight shed a soft light on Sherlock's young looking features as they rested pensively in thought.

"Is it possible," Sherlock wondered aloud, "to have so much distain for someone…that they make you sick, just by looking at them? Can somebody do that to someone?" John pulled some more of the blanket over Sherlock.

"I think, Sherlock," John said evenly, "That you would have to have something terrible already there to make you sick". Sherlock nodded and leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling. John wondered just how much pain Sherlock was really in. Knowing him, he could be in agony and not tell anyone out of sheer pride. John was in fact going to ask, but Sherlock cut across him.

"Where is Mycroft?" he asked.

"The nurses insisted he left the room to get some sleep, so he found a chair to put right outside the door to sleep in. Something about it being a loophole in their instructions, they never said how far away he had to be from the room," John explained. He was surprised when he caught Sherlock muffling a chuckle.

John gave a little laugh too and it felt like they were back at the flat again, laughing over chasing a cab or Sherlock's latest attempt to dissect something and ending up covered in the thing he was trying to study. It felt good.

"It reminds me of something you would do," John said when they both sobered up. Sherlock frowned.

"Do you really think I'd be that unimaginative?" Sherlock asked and John wondered if he'd forgot to dig at his brother and say that he wouldn't even be at the hospital, or he couldn't be bothered with the bravado. They both knew that, despite the arguing and the nemesis ideals, Sherlock would be there for Mycroft if this had been the other way around, if only just to see him for an hour.

"Maybe not," John said, laughing. He smiled at his flat mate. "You know, you have a funny relationship," John observed, "But you know, with a bit of effort…it kinda works".

Sherlock gave a disdainful sniff. "I don't enjoy wasting energy," he said nonchalantly, but John noticed the half-hearted sound to the words. "If I have to put in effort, then so do you," Sherlock commented, confusing John for a moment, "Yes, I know, you've been worrying over Harry all day, right after she left you that message on your blog. You've been distracted for hours".

John blinked, trying his hardest not to be surprised. But then, when you lived with Sherlock Holmes, it was hard _not _to be surprised. Sherlock never failed to find something new to shock you. He swallowed down the regular urge to ask "How did you know?" and shut his mouth before he looked too much like he was gaping.

"Oh come on John, it wasn't exactly difficult," Sherlock said and John shook his head in disbelief.

"Does nothing get past you?"

"Not very often John, not very often at all," Sherlock replied and John watched his eyelids beginning to droop.

"Come on then, you're not staying up and keeping me awake all night," John said jovially. Sherlock grunted something, already half asleep. John couldn't help but smile. The drugs Sherlock had been on were strong enough to put Sherlock out mid-sentence and, with the effects still wearing off, John found it strangely endearing when Sherlock dropped off suddenly. _Endearing_, John thought, _not a word I ever thought I'd use to describe Sherlock Holmes_. _Oh well, _he thought, _Sherlock's full of surprises._

John stayed awake a while after that, thinking over what Sherlock had said. He turned his phone over his hand. One call. Just one. John nodded, decision made firmly in his mind. Before anyone got up, he'd call her. Settling into his rather uncomfortable chair, John wondered what Harry Watson was going to say when she picked up the phone.

* * *

Harry Watson was hung over and ill feeling. Those two could be linked actually, but Harry wasn't sure. She groaned, her arm lolling off the side of the bed and patting around for her alarm clock. Hitting it with more force than intended, she picked it up and checked the time. _Ugh, God. 9:30, _Harry thought, _too early to be awake. Far too earlier. _She moaned at the slit of light throw the curtains.

"Go away," she told it out loud, sober enough to realise that it was a waste of time, but hung over enough not to care. Grunting she turned over and pulled her duvet over her head, ruffling her already birds-nest hair from the night before.

She would have gone back to sleep for another four hours if not for the phone that rang fifteen minutes later. She gave an annoyed noise, the ringing grating on her head as she sat up to search for the phone. God, she was too dizzy to be doing this.

"Hello?"

"Harry?" The voice on the other end of the phone surprised Harry so much that she nearly dropped the phone, pulling her pyjamas down as she lopsidedly fell off the side of the bed in her rush to get up.

"John?" she said, putting on her best "I'm-not-drunk-can't you tell?" voice and hoping it was enough.

"Are you drunk?" she heard her brother say and she cursed herself. _Damn, why did it have to be today of all days? _But then, she was like this more often than not, so it was probably simple math that John would call on one of those days. But then Harry never was great at even simple math when hung over, so she didn't bother trying.

John sighed on the end of the phone. "You are, aren't you?"

"No, no, I just woke up, that's all," Harry lied. _It's partially true, _Harry thought. Another sigh from the end of the phone.

"Harry, if you've been drinking…"

"I've not, it was just a sip-"

"And that's what got dad into trouble in the first place. Are you completely incapable of being-"

"Responsible?" Harry snapped, feeling a familiar annoyance swelling. Blast it, she always got like this when she was hung over. "Well, thanks for the tip little brother," she snarled.

"Harry…"

"I haven't done anything wrong," Harry growled and she heard the exasperation on the end of the line.

She knew without a doubt that John would be right, that she'd feel guilty about it later but she couldn't help it.

"Harry, you're-"

"Drunk? Hung over? A disappointment? I know, I know, you've told me" she intercepted. It was unfair and she knew it, but it was out before she could stop it and she could already tell John's reaction before she had finished saying it.

"I never said that Harry," John said, his voice suddenly more cold and detached than Harry remembered it being, "Listen, talk to me when you're more sober okay?"

"John, wait, I didn't mean to-" Harry heard the line go dead and she groaned in frustration. _Not again, _she thought. Sighing, she started on her apology text.

* * *

John waited for the customary apology text that he knew would come, no doubt, a few moments later. He glanced at the clock, wishing now more than any time that Mycroft would turn up, or Sherlock would wake, meaning that he wouldn't have to sit through his guilt. He didn't really mean to hang up like that. _Old habits die hard, _he thought gloomily.

"Difficult morning already?" said a voice by the door. John nearly fell of his chair in surprise. He looked across irritably and spotted Mycroft stood by the doorway, leaning on his umbrella. Apparently his assistant had brought him both the umbrella and a new black suit as he was stood, sleek as ever in the doorway.

"Sort of," John said, not surprised if Mycroft hadn't already deduced what was the matter with him. There was a buzz on his phone and he checked it, despite having a very good idea of what it would be.

_John, I'm really sorry, I was hung over, but I'm okay now, please call me back. _

_Harry xx_

John sighed and put it back in his pocket, feeling Mycroft watching his movements.

"You should probably call her back," Mycroft stated, coming to sit by the bedside, across from John. John didn't respond to that, instead choosing to sit in silence, watching Sherlock closely, eyes pointedly away from Mycroft, who took the hint, his eyes falling to Sherlock who was sleeping soundly.

In fact, Sherlock slept for a good hour after that and it was only when the doctor came in did he wake up.

"Mr Holmes, your heart monitor is looking a little erratic today, are you in any pain?" the doctor asked, his first task to check the stats on the detective. John frowned, shooting Mycroft a glance, noting that the same expression of concern had crossed Mycroft's face. Not just the admittedly speedy bleeps of Sherlock's heart that had already begun to cause John to worry about half an hour ago, but also because of the very familiar look that had crossed Sherlock's face. John worriedly observed as he immediately recognised the expression that he had come to dub "the deduction face", the same intense look that Sherlock wore when deducing speedily.

"Sherlock," John said, "You probably should take some meds you know, it's not a sin to take medicine you know". He tried an easy smile, but it came out uncertain, wondering what Sherlock's mind was thinking over to cause _that _look. The doctor seemed to have picked up on the mood and raised an eyebrow at John.

Sherlock didn't stop looking at the doctor, a slight frown creasing his brow a little, as if he had hit an unusual fact in his head.

"Sherlock?" John asked again, and Sherlock's eyes suddenly flitted back to him. "Sherlock, are you okay?" Sherlock gave him a look, a look that John recognised as the sort of look that usually got them into trouble…or that Sherlock had sensed trouble. John saw Sherlock flit the same look to Mycroft, and Mycroft straightened up and glanced around the room surreptitiously, as if checking for prying eyes. Sherlock glanced back up at John, his eyes willing him to believe what he said next.

"Something's not right"

* * *

Martin Teres was impressed. The hospital was a swanky joint after all, just like Mr Leach had said it was going to be. It was big too, like Leach had said. Matthew Leach hired a lot of people; Teres knew that, after all, he was one of the man's employees. The pay was good, the hours were not bad, and in all honesty Teres was always much more inclined to playing on the riskier side of life. And, of course, the darker pleasures in life were always the more exciting. TNT, C4, fire and shortened fuses were half of the joy of being alive in Teres' view. And he reasoned that going where Leach sent him was better than staying home with wife anyway. So when his boss had called him last night to tell him he wanted him to check out a hospital, he jumped on the chance.

He walked lazily down the hallway, stolen white doctor's coat billowing like he owned the place. And why not? The place was going to be a wreck in a few days if he had anything to say about it. Well, more if Leach had something to say about it, but that was a minor detail. He swaggered past the doors, glancing in each room as he went. Leach had wanted him to find a room of some Holmes fellow, somewhere between room 400 and 420. Or was that 420 to 440? Teres couldn't remember, in fact, it was probably just his lack of interest showing, but he was checking them anyway. In all honesty, he'd wanted to blow something up. He heard some poor bugger had been sent to blow himself up in some office block 'cos Leach had told him too. Teres chuckled to himself. Despite the fact that bombs were one of the few pleasures in life, Teres wasn't clean on being in the path of one.

He wrinkled his nose, looking though the rooms. The medicine he was holding stank, it was something he'd nicked from some cart on a ward a fair way back to make him "look the part". Damn hospital was bigger than he'd thought, and full of English people with posh accents. Damn British and their accent. Teres had flown over from America looking for excitement about 4 years ago and had ended up working for Leach when illegal immigration caught up with him. Not only did Leach cut a sweet deal on explosives, but it kept immigration control off his back. He scanned down more rooms. God, they looked all the same. 400, 401, 402.

"Oh I'm sorry!" Teres fell forwards as a doctor, no doubt too busy looking at that god damn chart in his hand to pay attention to where he was going, slammed into him. He felt some of the contents of the bottle in his hand tip and it splattered the other man's white coat.

"Damn it," Teres growled under his breath.

"Sorry pal," the doctor said, brushing his coat, "Don't worry about the coat, it'll wash". As if he expected Teres to feel guilty about it. Teres gave a derisive laugh. His fault for being so damn clumsy.

"Yeah well, watch where you're headed next time, yeah?" Teres growled.

The doctor frowned at him, gave him a curt nod that showed his disapproval and hurried along. Teres watched him go. _What a punk, _he thought morbidly. _But then again, where is such a doctor in such a hurry to go to? _Grinning, Teres dumped his now half empty bottle of whatever the hell the stuff was and followed him down the hall, stooping behind a corner when the man turned into one of the many hospital rooms.

Teres smiled in triumph as he squinted at the paper displayed in the window. _Mr Sherlock Holmes. Finally, _Teres thought, drawing out his phone. The number he called only rang twice before it was picked up, a smooth, if interested, voice receiving it.

"Mr Teres. Good to hear you've found the mark so soon," the voice of Teres' employer drifting easily down the line, "I never doubted your skills for a moment".

"Yeah well you owe me a new jacket, Leach. Think this one stinks o' some ratty old medicine now, thanks" Teres complained roughly down the phone. There seemed to be a moment while Teres imagined his employer raising an eyebrow on the other end of the line.

"Indeed. A shame. Not that your usual… aroma interests me Mr Teres, I'm sure you can afford to buy your own jacket when you receive your pay check. I take it you've found the man I'm looking for?"

"Yeah, room 414. Some ward beginning with C I think… cardiology or summat" Teres said, losing interest very quickly with the banter down the line.

"Excellent. You've found several places you'd like to plant a bomb I take it?" Leach guessed.

Teres grinned. _Of course he'd found a place. He'd found several places just by walking down the hall._

"Now what kind of anarchist would I be if I hadn't?" Teres teased lazily. A sigh from the other side.

"But of course. Are they secure?"

"Secure as secure can be," he assured. There was a moment and then it seemed as if Leach was about to put the phone down when Teres spotted something.

"Hey, by the way," Teres said, "You know there's a missus?"

"What?"

"A missus," Teres said, "It says on the door, Mrs Angela Holmes" Teres hated the pondering silence that came next. Stupid geniuses and their games, probably facing off against one another at some point. And it always meant they'd be stood talking for hours with no prospect of violence. Shame really, they must miss out on all the fun.

Teres waited out the silence, pretending to listen, and most of all, pretending to care when Leach seemed to finally reveal his thinking.

"Sherlock Holmes has no wife… but I do imagine that he has a mother," the voice said. Teres raised his eyebrows at that. Sharing a room with the old woman? Harsh times. Teres wouldn't stay in a room with his mother even if he got paid for it. Poor bloke was probably nagged out of his mind.

"Want me to do anything else?" Teres said. "_Take out the old lady?" _being the silent question there. _"Blow up the building?" _being another. A moment of quiet consideration followed.

"No. Leave it to me for now," Leach said. Teres gave a quiet, scathing laugh.

"Whatever you say, _boss_" The phone went dead and Teres laughed sardonically. Loser. He pocketed his mobile and reluctantly moved out; whistling Death is Not the End as he went.

_What a waste of a trip if you can't even blow anything up. With_ that on his mind, Teres waltzed out of the building and trotted down the steps, flashing a "hello beautiful" to one of the incoming nurses. Today was a sunny day. _The perfect day to go blow something up. _

* * *

Sherlock frowned at the wet patch on the lapel of the white lab coat of his doctor. He could smell it from here, an acrid smell that caught at the back of your throat. It smelt like Vancomycin to Sherlock. But then, probably only Sherlock could be able to place a smell like that, maybe except John. To Sherlock it had an unmistakable smell, something he used in some of his experiments sometimes, even though it seemed fairly innocuous to anyone else. A very powerful bacterial treatment. Used a lot for MRSA treatment, John would know that. Sherlock knew that.

So why was a doctor, whose first patient was him in the cardiology ward, freshly covered in a substance that was found on the other side of the hospital? Judging by the ruffled coat, the hasty way it seemed to have been replaced, Sherlock knew he'd bumped into someone, he looked annoyed and flustered, clear signs. So the person he'd knocked had spilled something on him. Not a doctor or a nurse, there was no need for MRSA treatment here, there had been no outbreak. No doctor would have so little medical knowledge as to bring that over here. Not a patient or family member that had stolen it either, it would have to be in plain sight for it to spill.

So who would have had it in plain sight? Someone who _looked _like a doctor? But why would anyone masquerade as a doctor in this hospital? Sherlock immediately began to turn the cogs in his mind, turning first to John, then to Mycroft, and back to John.

"Something's not right".

There was a long silence, the doctor completely dumbfounded, John too apparently.

"You should take some painkillers Sherlock," Mycroft said suddenly. Sherlock frowned.

"Mycroft-"

"Now. Sherlock." Mycroft snarled. Sherlock recoiled, confused. Surely he had seen-

Sherlock caught t just in time as he was about to protest. The understanding, warning look Mycroft was shooting him, the "I'll tell you later" glance at John, the distrustful stare at the doctor as he assessed him. He'd seen it. Of course he'd seen it. His big brother, no matter how annoying, seemed to see everything, even if Sherlock didn't. Sherlock nodded his understanding, slowly, and gave John's hand a tap 3 times. _I'll tell you later. Act normal, _he conveyed. John nodded, frown disappearing as he received another text in his pocket and the sound broke the tension in the room.

"Well, I just need to take a look at your legs and how they're healing," the doctor said.

Sherlock nodded, and Mycroft caught the deep breath he sucked in as he steadied himself, obviously still in pain. Mycroft was about to say something but decided to leave it till later to say anything. John apparently caught the intake of breath too and shot Mycroft a worried glance. _I'll handle it, _Mycroft tried to convey as he looked intently at John. John nodded and turned away to look at his phone.

_Sherlock's onto something. The doctor has a spill of Vancomycin on him. There is someone in the hospital impersonating a doctor. MH._

John stared at the text. Mycroft must have been texting with his hands in his pockets. How he did that John would never know. Another thing he'd probably never know was how Vancomycin and an imposter were linked he'd never know, but what he did know was that Mycroft and Sherlock were usually right. He turned and gave Mycroft a worried, questioning look, only to be rewarded with a "calm down" sort of hand movement and a stare that plainly read "I'll tell you later". John nodded, trusting him for now, and looked as his phone beeped again.

_Please call me John, I am sober and I want to talk to you. Please call._

_Harry xx_

Mycroft watched his brother as he winced slightly, the doctor assessing the healing on his legs. He bent down, inconspicuously enough not to be noticed fully, but enough to mutter something to Sherlock.

"There's someone in the hospital," Mycroft stated, knowing Sherlock already knew, "I'm going to find them no matter what it takes okay?" Sherlock nodded, biting his lip as the doctor pressed some sort of appliance to his leg and he couldn't control a hiss of pain. Mycroft straightened, but not before he covertly slid his hand under Sherlock's. Sherlock bit down a cry of pain, the doctor apologising furtively, insisting it was necessary as Sherlock gritted his teeth and his hand clamped down onto Mycroft's, latching him down from the pain.

The grip was painfully tight, but Mycroft didn't say anything, in fact, if he acknowledged it at all, he didn't show it, his face remaining passive as he pretended for the sake of Sherlock's dignity that the hand wasn't clutched to his like the last thing on earth, like Sherlock's other hand wasn't scrambling at the sheets on the other side, John running soothing hands through his best friend's hair as he rode out the pain.

He'd be there as long as Sherlock needed him. 

* * *

_**A/N **__So there you have it, chapter 21. As I said before, no disrespect to the Brits intended (it'd be an offense to myself, lol :D) I just wanted to have a bit of fun with a character that for some reason I really enjoyed writing. In fact, I really like this chapter a lot, I'm not overly sure why, but it's a mix of many things I think :) Anyway, thanks for your patience guys, I owe you own again ;P Next chapter up tomorrow!_


	22. Death

**_A/N _**_:O I'm on time? What is this madness? Lol, it's crazy :D Not much to say this chapter guys, except from I got to use a very cool word somewhere in there (lol, I'm weird like that, it's unnoticeable :D)  
To all reviewers and alerters (yes, even just from yesterdays chapter, I love you all!) Thanks for your patence guys and I'm glad that, for once, I can make this out on time for you lovely people who are so very awesome :)  
**Disclaimer:**__Pepperoni is Moriarty's code name for Sherlock? What? The sign is on my Batcave: Do Not Disturb, Decoding Sherlock Plans.  
No code will ever evade me...  
*Grabs code dictionary* :D_

* * *

The math didn't add up. Sherlock's blood pressure, heart rate, none of it added up to make any sense. Everything was going too fast, too much all at once and it was making John uneasy to say the least.

"Sherlock, please take something," John pleaded. As far as John could remember, Sherlock hadn't been on pain medication for two days now. No wonder his heart rate was so high. _Damn these hospital files,_ John thought, _they never tell you anything you need to know. _  
"Sherlock, come on," John said. Sherlock waved him off, face intent on the screen in front of him. Mycroft had hacked into the hospital CCTV mainframe from his laptop, and after persistent nagging from Sherlock and reassurances from John that no, it didn't mess with the instruments ("Just stop your brother from nagging me!"), he had given it to Sherlock to browse for as long as Mycroft could order the nurses to stay out and not disturb him. Much to Mycroft's disgruntlement of course, John had seen him pacing up and down the corridor worriedly for hours before dawn struck.

Since the morning though, John hadn't seen him, and ended up at the conclusion that he'd gone to do something more productive no doubt, most likely researching yesterday's leads to the imposter in the doctor's uniform. John had no idea where he was or where he was headed, but he'd seen Mycroft pouring over the video files before Sherlock even got a glance at them, and by the troubled look on his face, he'd already found who they were looking for. John also guessed that it had been better for him to keep Sherlock busy with video footage than get him even more restless over a potential lead.

"There, there he is," Sherlock said suddenly, pointing at the screen. Apparently John would have to resume his persuasion later; Sherlock's face strangely reminded John of the look in a hunting dog's eyes when it found its prey.

John squinted at the blurry image on screen, taking a close look at the man Sherlock was pointing to, or at least, as close a look as the pixelated footage would allow. The man was tanned, with dark, well styled yet greasy looking hair.

"Not a doctor or a visitor, he didn't check in. See, he only talks with the receptionist for a moment and she doesn't write down his name," Sherlock said.

"He looks like he's flirting with her," John mused. Sherlock snapped a look at him.

"What? He does!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Back to the _actual _deduction, he heads to this ward here," Sherlock said, gesturing.

"Where Vancomycin is most commonly used in a hospital," John said, finishing off the sentence.

"Very good. Now, you can see in fifteen minutes time, he returns with a small bottle and a lab coat, heading up to our ward, checking each room," Sherlock studiously looked over the video, watching the man, eyes flitting here and there as he moved. John had to squint to see the bottle, he could barely see it, but he trusted that Sherlock could. Sherlock was good at seeing stuff like that.

"Then, he was looking for someone?" John questioned. Sherlock nodded.

"Seems to be the logical explanation," Sherlock said.

The look that Sherlock gave him made John wonder just how the Titanic felt when it spotted the iceberg. _Probably a bit like this, _John thought.

"No, Sherlock, no," John said, standing up straight and shaking his head.

"John, don't you see? This is all linked! The bomb, the hospital where the survivors are, it's all connected! This could be the link that-"

"Sherlock, no!"  
"John, please!" Sherlock hissed, as if it was the most crucial thing that the world had ever faced, "Let me take a look around the hospital, just one look! John, I can handle this, I'm healing!"

"Sherlock, no you're not! You've not taken pain medication in two days!"

"All the more proof that I am getting better, John you have to understand," Sherlock said forcefully.

John rolled his eyes but stopped arguing. Even the small fight had caused Sherlock's heart rate monitor to beep worryingly fast.

"Sherlock, please, you're not well. You need to see your doctor again, I can-"

"You're a doctor," Sherlock pointed out.

"Yes but-"

"And if you let me out to see this, then I'll take whatever meds you give me"

"Yes but- What, wait, really?" John said.

"I promise"

John blinked, biting his lip. One half of him was screaming to make Sherlock stay in bed, the other half knowing that if he did, the Sherlock would be stubborn enough to not take the pills all day. He was so deep in thought that he didn't notice the moment when Mrs Holmes shifted awake in the other bed, apparently taking stock of the situation.

"And which course of action would lead to the most injury?"

John jumped at the voice, the croak of her voice sounding ill and frailer than before. John felt himself see red, he'd never met anyone before that could infuriate him so just by _being_ there.

"Listen-" John began as the woman grinned at his expression, anger flaring instantly.

"Mother, I would appreciate quiet while I work, if that is not too much to ask".

John gaped. The entire room seemed to gape, the atmosphere suddenly feeling like the air had been sucked right out of it. Sherlock sat, looking innocently at across the room. Or at least, the gaze was supposed to be innocent. John didn't know if Sherlock's mother was able to see it too, but the pure terror locked into Sherlock's eyes was enough to make John feel sick. A momentary burst of confidence from the case had lapsed over into Sherlock's speech, and now Sherlock seemed to be expecting a price to pay for it. In fact, Sherlock seemed almost to be waiting for a blow, as if his mother was going to strike him from the other side of the room. John swallowed whatever retort he had prepared in surprise. He stared at Sherlock in shock, and when Sherlock managed a slight turn of his head to look at his friend, John smiled in pride. Sherlock managed a weak smile back, some of the fear in his eyes receding as he found comfort in how close John was behind him, backing him up.

"Don't you _dare _speak to me like that!"

John's gaze snapped up to look at the woman once more, realising how Sherlock could have grown to become frightened of her over the years. The words weren't even aimed at John, but the venom was so noticeable it was like she had fired a poisoned dart to the other side of the room, the spite so directed at Sherlock that John thought he saw his flatmate shrink back a little.

"Just like your father," she snarled, "Arrogant. Lazy. Useless". John felt fury well up as he saw Sherlock flinch at each word. John caught the slight shaking of Sherlock's hands, unnoticeable to anyone else, but obvious to him.

"Listen here-" he began.

A soft, shaking touch on his wrist stopped him. He frowned and looked down at his arm and saw Sherlock's slender fingers just touching his forearm.

"Sherlock, you can't just-"

"Can we go?" Sherlock said suddenly, and then quieter, "I want to leave". John felt himself soften and suddenly the decision was made for him.

"Running away won't do you any good," John heard Mrs Holmes say pompously, "Coward like your brother". John bit his tongue, but Sherlock whipped his head round to glare at her, suddenly looking furious.

"Leave Mycroft out of this!" He snarled and his mother recoiled a little. "He's not a coward. He has _nothing _to do with this…or you," Sherlock growled lowly. John allowed him a moment as the fire in his eyes died down, replaced with what John painful recognised as abashed fear.

"Come on Sherlock, come on," John urged, and Sherlock cried out as John helped him sit up.

John tried to ignore the hateful stare coming from the other corner of the room as he helped Sherlock to pull himself to the edge of the bed. Sherlock groaned as John produced a wheelchair from where one was packed away in the corner.

"Yes you have to," John said, before Sherlock could ask. Sherlock growled, narrowing his eyes but reluctantly got in.

They tried to ignore the cursing coming from the other bed as John pushed Sherlock out of the room.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes stood outside the office blocks by the wreckage site of what used to be the Ace-Excel office building. He looked strange, stood by the rubble, umbrella propping him up conspicuously, but he stood out in a way that exuded authority. He looked up at the office he'd tracked all the way from the tape of the hospital.

It had been interesting to say the least. He'd sent the tanned man's photo to every agency he could think in, in every country he could think of, contacts he hadn't used in years. He'd got a few hits back, mostly useless Intel. Until he had spread his reach to America that was, and no less than an hour later had they come back with a Martin Teres, four years ago having left for the UK illegally. After that, Teres had been admittedly difficult to trace, but several sightings by immigration patrol and he had found Teres' bank account. Apparently it was receiving regular payments from a Mr Matthew Leach, who incidentally had also paid to hire out an office just across from Ace-Excel the day of the explosion… and was a former employee of the now-destroyed company.

Mycroft had raised an eyebrow at that. After some digging into Ace-Excel's records, Leach had been a star employee, the best business man there was. And not only that, but when the company was resold in 2009, Leach was to gain not only a promotion, but also the status as one of the richest men in the country. Mycroft smiled. Of course, not all had gone to plan, and after a backstabbing move by several members of the board to usurp Leach's power-to-be, and taking not only his funds, but his job too, Leach had disappeared. Until a dissertation on "A man's impact on the world" had turned up last year, with Leach's name on it.

Mycroft turned to view the bomb site behind him. He'd certainly made an impact, that was for sure, Mycroft was pretty sure that Leach was planning a little bit more than just one bomb to be remembered by, and revenge didn't seem to quite cut it. Desperation for recognition, however, Mycroft mused, was always the gift that just kept on giving. He gave a grimace as he looked up at the now empty office, and felt it suddenly hit him. Leach knew that Sherlock had been in that explosion.

And what kind of man, power hungry, desperate to make his mark, would pass up on the opportunity to be the criminal that killed Sherlock Holmes?

Realisation sunk in and Mycroft whipped out his phone, turning as fast as he could, speed dialling his assistant's number.

"Get here as fast as you can, I need to get back to the hospital," Mycroft instructed, "Now".

* * *

"I did this"

John didn't say anything, almost unable to look at Sherlock's anguished face as he saw her. They had searched the hospital high and low, Sherlock scouring for clues, and John had been all but ready to go back to the room. Sherlock was breathing heavy and John felt his stomach flip every time the detective seemed to wince in pain.

"I want to see her," Sherlock had said. John had given him a quizzical look and Sherlock had glanced up at him, John smirking at the way Sherlock's curly hair fell as his head leant back to look at him.

"The woman, Tamila I think it was. The lady I arrived with," Sherlock explained. John didn't say anything. Usually Sherlock barely remembered a suspect's name, never mind the name of a so-called "irrelevant" human being. And he was pretty sure that if he saw her, knowing he couldn't save her, there wouldn't be much left of him that couldn't break. John had suffered that himself, back in Afghanistan, and that was without the pain that Sherlock was no doubt suffering. And it had nearly killed him.

"I want to see her," Sherlock said, and John felt himself smile at the petulant tone, but realised immediately that it was hiding concern.

John stopped by the elevators. Up for Sherlock's ward. Down for Tamila's. He frowned in thought.

"Please John," Sherlock said quietly, so quietly that John might not have heard it if Sherlock hadn't looked up at him when he said it. Sherlock looked back at the elevators as the doors pinged open and John stared at the buttons hopelessly. He looked at Sherlock, the consultant's gaze steady and earnest. John pressed a button on the elevator.

"Going down," the voice said. Sherlock nodded, satisfied.

"I did this," Sherlock said, "This is my fault"

John witnessed the look of pure despair that crossed his face as he stared at the woman lying prone in the bed. He felt a lump of pity grow in his throat as he went to sit down, but Sherlock's gaze made him stay standing, changing his mind. By the looks of it, he didn't look as if he could take any more.

"Sherlock," John said, "Sherlock, you didn't do this. You saved her life, she'll be okay, I promise"

"How can you know that?" Sherlock snapped, "Did you know that 27% of coma patients in this deep a state could die, or remain in a coma?" John stared.

"Yes, and I also know that 68% of coma patients in this state live," John retorted calmly. Sherlock was at a loss for words for a moment, then frowned, appearing to be trying to work something out.

"But if 68% live then-"

"Yeah, don't ask about the other 5%. It's just the statistics, don't look at me for them," John explained. Sherlock frowned a moment longer, then a smile cracked over his features and John lit up. An actual, genuine smile. Sherlock hadn't pulled one of those in a long while.

"I think maybe we lost them," John continued.

"Oh don't be ridiculous," Sherlock mock-scolded and there was a moment before they both burst out laughing, the laughter ringing in the room like sunlight had got in.

John smiled at Sherlock's almost giggly laughter and felt his heart swell happily. Sherlock was looking at him seriously now, and John tilted his head at him.

"She'll be okay, won't she?" Sherlock asked. John sighed.

"She'll be okay," he said. Sherlock seemed about to question it, but then he stopped and fixed John with a soft, long stare.

"Okay," he said eventually, "I trust you". John nodded and smiled.

"We should go, before someone finds us in here," John said, "We're not supposed to be in here". Sherlock grinned.

"Ooh, John you rule breaker, you ought to be ashamed," he laughed. John pretended to hit him as he put his hands on the grips of the wheelchair and Sherlock glanced back at the comatose body in the bed.

Sherlock didn't stop looking back the entire way to the room.

* * *

"Sherlock? Sherlock? Can you hear me? Sherlock?"

They'd got back to the room, Mrs. Holmes welcoming them with a sarcastic sneer as they got in and John saw Sherlock stiffen as he went by.

"Come on then," John said. Sherlock winced as John stopped by the bed and John frowned.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock shook his head suddenly and John's heart skipped a beat.

"Sherlock, Sherlock what is it?" John bent down, just as Sherlock let out a scream of pain.

"Sherlock? Sherlock? Can you hear me? Sherlock?"John shouted, a hand going to Sherlock's wrist and feeling Sherlock's all-too-quick heartbeat. It all fit. He hadn't had pain meds in days, the strain was incredible. High blood pressure, heart rate through the roof. Sherlock screamed again and John could barely think. _Skin clammy, sudden onset, strain on the heart muscles, emotional and physical stress. _

John felt his world shatter as the pieces fit together like one of Sherlock's deductions. Sherlock gave a yelp and John barely caught him as he fell from the chair, clattering to the ground, John's arms wrapping around him.

"Get me somebody in here with a crash cart now!" he screamed, desperation making his voice shake. _Oh my God, please, please Sherlock, no…_

John tried to be the doctor and not the friend as he felt himself surrounded by nurses, a crash cart sweeping in like death itself. He wanted, needed to distance himself from this. He didn't want to watch this as a friend… he didn't want to watch as Sherlock gasped in pain as his heart began squeezing at a rate too fast to deal with…as his best friend suffered a heart attack.

He didn't want to remember this as the day that his best friend died.

* * *

**_A/N _**_Oh My God. I did not just write that. I'm going to cry *sobs openly* Oh God, I feel so guilty! :O I'm so harsh :(  
By the way, those statistics? True statstics. What happened to the other 5% Anyone know? (Most imaginative answer gets virtual cookie ;P)  
Anyway, if anyone is wondering what's just happened, all is definitely to be explained tomorrow, but some of you should be able to guess why the heart attack and stuff, since it's mostly explained here :) But until then, I'm going to go cry into my pillow D': _

_Hope this chapter was okay :/ (I'm a wee bit worried about it :/) Thanks so much for reading! (and your patience with me :D)_


	23. Beat

_**A/N **__And here it is! The final chapter to my triple whammy for this week! And :O Thank you so much for all of your reviews, I've never had so many for one chapter before, I love you all! And your responses had me laughing like crazy so I'm sending virtual cookie bouquets to you all :D *The flying monkeys went to buy them from Morrisons today, they got a few funny stares :D*  
__This chap is quite introspective and short, but the reason why is pretty much in the bottom A/N _

_Thank you to all of the reviewers/alerters/favouriters who make this fic worth reading and the review section a happy place to be :D Your comments are hilarious and motivating and those messages telling me I'm honoured enough to appear in your inboxes when I update makes me want to make you guys proud (and happy to have added me) :) And some news: The Truth's Lies has given our fic a __tagline: "Death to Mrs. Holmes!" Lol :D Any other advances on that are welcome :) We can make tee-shirts. And hats! :D_

_**Disclaimer: **__Gah! This code is impossible! But! I have released "Storystuff's Guide to Pizza Coding Hell: Your Guide To Pizza Mania and Other Clues." I'm hoping to sell enough copies to get some funds to hire some ninjas to kidnap Sherlock! Unfortunately_ _98Shaddowolff98 has released a pop up guide. So far I've sold: 0 copies. Any orders welcome *If not, the flying monkey Guide advertisement force will be at your door. You. Have. Been. Warned. ;P* _

* * *

"Sherlock!"

John's fingers searched frantically for a pulse, receiving nothing in return. _Nononono… where is it? _Frantically he put his head to Sherlock's chest. _Oh God no, please. _No heartbeat. Sherlock Holmes had no pulse. At least, that was how John would put it… he couldn't be… he wasn't dead, he was Sherlock Holmes, he couldn't just _die. _

"Charge those!" he screamed at a nurse as she pulled the pads from the crash cart, "He's got no pulse, somebody help me here!" The nurses were there, pulling Sherlock onto his back, but John still felt like crying for help, more helpless than he'd ever felt before.

"What's going on here?" A voice shouted from the doorway and a nurse got up, dashing over. John didn't look up at Mycroft as he burst in, the nurse trying to bustle him out.

"Clear!"

John only just managed to get his hands away as a jolt rushed through Sherlock's body. _Think John, think, _he scolded himself, leaning down to check Sherlock's pulse again. He needed to be the doctor, not the friend; he needed to know what to do.

"Get out of the way!" He heard Mycroft's shout above the nurses and it looked like he'd made it past the nurse. Of course he had, nothing on earth could stop Mycroft Holmes.

"Charging," a nurse called and John leant back, away from the prone body to allow the charge, "Clear!" Sherlock jolted and John sent a silent prayer to God. _Please, please make it, please._

"Come on, come on Sherlock," John said, his voice sending to no one in particular.

"Sir, should we-"

"Charge," John said. Anything, anything just to get those eyes to open again, anything at all.

"Charging…Clear!"

John leant down, ear pressed to Sherlock's chest.

"Please Sherlock, please come back, come back, please," John begged, his words cracking and breaking as he felt his throat close tightly as he listened with bleary eyes. He needed to hear it, he needed to hear it for fear that his own would stop without Sherlock's beating alongside it, without his best friend's heart to help keep his beating. There was nothing.

"Please, please, come on"

_Thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. _John let out a choked cry as he heard the soft beating of a heart under his ear, a shaky laugh escaping him in something so much more than relief. It was like gratitude and happiness and fear and shock all in one, Sherlock's tiny breath making John's heart leap as the detective shakily drew it in.

"Thank God," John heard Mycroft whisper, the word almost becoming a whimper as it ended, dying in a foreboding mirror of what could have been. "Thank God". John swallowed thickly, his hand going to rest on Sherlock's shoulder as his friend shuddered and let out a keening sound of pain as he huddled in on himself.

John's peripheral vision caught Mycroft turning away, putting his hands on the bed and heaving a breath that he'd probably been holding, the breath trembling as he exhaled. Sherlock gave a pained moan and John bit his lip as Sherlock rolled over to face him and John his façade of calm clatter to the ground as Sherlock's brown eyes flittered open painfully.

"Sherlock?" John urged gently. Brown eyes blearily met blue and Sherlock's eyes seemed to focus.

"John…" Sherlock groaned. John felt Sherlock grip and John's leg where he was knelt down and John had to swallow roughly to bite back the incoherent noise that welled at the back of John's throat.

"Chest…hurts," Sherlock grunted, curling up a little.

"I know Sherlock, I know," John muttered, voice low and quiet. They looked at each other a moment before John snapped his face up to look as he heard shouting.

His eyes fell on Mycroft, and John stared in surprise at Mycroft's screaming, his sudden, unexpected, uncharacteristic outburst making John blink in shock.

"Shut up! Shut up!" He was screaming, the noise splitting through the room like a shockwave

"He should have just given up and died while he had the chance to do so!" _Oh God. _John recognised the voice, the high, shrill voice of Mrs Holmes and John felt almost like he just wanted to cover Sherlock's ears against the noise.

"Don't you dare!" Mycroft was roaring and the nurses were up then, looking as if they were going to go put themselves in the firing line, but their hesistant tread was betraying them.

"Would have saved us all the trouble," it continued and John could feel Sherlock cringe beneath him.

"Him? Him? He'd save us the trouble? And you? How can you even think say that?"  
"Remember where you stand Mycroft! You don't have the right to-"

"Mrs Holmes, please," a nurse ventured.

"I don't have the right to? You're not even close to being human, you just take everything, you're-"

"Mycroft!"  
Mycroft stopped mid-sentence, looking round and down at John.

"Stop," John said. Mycroft frowned and then his eyes caught Sherlock's huddled form and Sherlock's breath hitched over a pained sob.

"This isn't making it any better," John mumbled, quiet enough for Mycroft just to be able to catch it, Sherlock not able to hear it over a gasp of pain.

"Dr Watson?" a nurse said, and John looked up. A group of nurses moved in and he moved to step back, but something gasped his hand and he looked down, Sherlock's long fingers curled around John's hand, his clammy palms clutching at him. John gulped and held onto Sherlock's hands as the nurses helped to lift him back into the bed, Sherlock's grip tightening when the bed rubbed on his already sore legs.

Mycroft hurried round, standing by John. "I'm sorry," he said, his composure returning, "I didn't mean to raise my voice… my apologies". John gave him a weak smile.

"Is he alright? What happened?" Mycroft said. John's smile faltered.

"Um, we need to take this outside," John said.

* * *

"He's suffered a myocardial infarction," John said, looking in through the small window at where Sherlock was already waving off a nurse, despite his obvious trauma. _Typical Sherlock, _John thought, _he can have a heart attack and still manage to be annoyed by the nurses._ John sighed, weary all of a sudden.

"A heart attack?" Mycroft said, "But… Sherlock has no heart conditions; he was fine, how…?"

"The pain medication," John explained, "Sherlock wasn't taking them, he was being stubborn"

"So the pain caused strain on his heart and made him have a heart attack," Mycroft finished.

"That and the additional emotional strain," John said. Mycroft's face darkened.

"Mother," Mycroft snarled.

"Among other things. Your mother, yes, but this whole case, the explosion, Tamila… he's worried," John said.

"He needn't be," Mycroft promised darkly.

John nodded, but he knew how Mycroft felt. If Sherlock's heart had just stopped for maybe one more minute, then what would have happened then? What would the world have been like without Sherlock Holmes? To John, it was too much to even think about, it was like a world without sound. It'd be like the whole world had suddenly become mute, every laugh and shout and promise drowned out with silence. And looking at Mycroft, he wasn't alone in his thoughts. Without Sherlock Holmes, the world for the two men sharing the corridor outside didn't work, it fell apart, like a machine with just one cog missing and it all fell apart. One skip of his heart, one missed beat; if it had failed to start again… the world would have stopped with him.

But then, would it have? John's world would have, things would have ceased to work. But the world? The world would keep on going. Mycroft would know, and Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, but there were all those people Sherlock had saved without them ever even knowing it. Time would simply go on without them. John would have to find a new flat, maybe even go back home, but never again could he live with another flatmate, or have Chinese alone. He'd never laugh again, or shout when the cooker broke because it'd remind him of when Sherlock left something in there and John had found out. Sherlock had looked so much like a naughty child that John had forgiven him almost immediately and bought him lunch instead. John winced at the memory.

Mycroft caught the movement and John caught the same look in his eyes too.

"It wouldn't be the same ever again…would it?" John said. Mycroft was silent but a moment later he shook his head.

"No, no it wouldn't," he said softly. They stood a moment in silence and John jumped when Mycroft's phone vibrated loudly. Mycroft's face crumpled into a frown when he saw the text.

"What is it?" John asked.

"I'm not sure…but we're not just investigating Leach…" Mycroft responded and showed John the text.

_Apparently you've been asking about me Mr Holmes. How is it to be investigated by the person you're looking into? Strange?  
No worries, I'm sure we might meet soon… or not. _

_Have a lovely day Mr Holmes_

_M. Leach _

"Leach is investigating us," Mycroft finished

John raised an eyebrow.

"You nearly found him?" he asked worriedly. Mycroft glanced inside the room again where Sherlock was spluttering after a particularly forceful yell at a nurse.

"I can promise you John," Mycroft said, "He's not getting away".

* * *

_**A/n **__Dun dun dun! Now now Mycroft, keep your calm, don't go out killing *rooting for Mycroft here :D*_ _This chap is a bit short I admit because I wanted to keep this completely down to Sherlock coming out of his cardiac arrest, but there's plenty of definite Mycroft awesomeness next chapter and also some large chunks of comfort too :) Sorry this chap is a bit brooding, but I did enjoy the introspect thoughts. Especially the paragraph on what would happen if Sherlock had have died :O That was great fun to write. And it rings resonant with my view too :) I'm too soft to kill Sherlock :D _

_Anyway, thanks for reading and next chap is hopefully soon-ish. *Lol, I'm a smidgem pooped out :D*_


	24. Worthy

_**A/N **__Kept to my Sunday update this week, making me a very happy bunny :) In fact, I very much enjoyed writing this weeks (again, I love writing this sort of stuff XD) Hopefully a double update treat is coming up this week so keep nagging me to get it done, lol) Again, typos and such = feel free to flame me for them, *I deserve it for my terrible aversion of sitting down and actually rereading the whole thing*. But on the note of helping me, thanks to all the reviewers, alerters and favouriters who really deserve the credit for this story getting written, it's a joy to write for you all when you give such wonderful reviews and I hope I do good for you :) _

_Anyway, feel free to tell me if I've missed anything, made you confused or plain upset/disappointed you in any way and the only warning for this chapter is: A bit of violence around 3/4 –ish of the way in :S  
__**Disclaimer: **__After only two orders for my book, I received, minus tax, deductions, literary agent and publisher's cuts, a grand total of: 48p. HOWEVER! Included in that payment was, quite luckily, a very rare 20p that I was able to trade in to a collector for some very fetching art straws. I sold these on eBay to some very desperate art students who gave me in return a fully functioning Pandorica that they made (after my request due to the fantastic input from reviewer Mellyrin who suggested the Pandorica). I plan to trap Sherlock within and then he cannot escape until I let him out in my secret underground Batcave. Haha, there's no escape this time Sherlock!_

* * *

"It's normal, isn't it?" Sherlock asked. John raised his head from where he was filling a syringe with medicine, managing to pull half of his attention from the measuring points, focusing on getting the right dosage.

"Hmm?" he mumbled, half listening. John had been treating Sherlock by himself all morning, insisting that he wanted to treat Sherlock. After all he'd been through, including the sickeningly close incident yesterday; John knew that an unfamiliar face was the last thing Sherlock needed.

He'd slept late, worryingly so, and John had eventually had to rouse him, much to Sherlock's disgruntlement, a disgruntlement that showed itself vividly in Sherlock's groans at the hospital lighting. Eventually John had managed to get his groggy flatmate to a sitting position. Right now though Sherlock looked as if he was about to pass out again, and not for the first time this morning either, a fact that terrified John. John noticed that Sherlock had gone quiet all of a sudden and he frowned, looking up at him and felt his heart jump in fear when he saw Sherlock looking blankly over at the corner of the room, as if reading the posters on the wall. Sherlock's eyes looked blank, bleary.

_That's normal for a patient after this kind of shock, _John thought, but it didn't reassure him. He'd taken stock of the facts this morning and all in all, it could have been worse. Of course there was still damage to the heart, but as the attack had been more stress induced than any other problem, it meant that there was nothing to hinder the healing process, and with any luck, it wasn't going to hinder Sherlock for too long either. But John had jokingly managed to tell Sherlock that it did in fact mean that the cigarette quitting was definitely a fixed thing now, to which Sherlock had raised an eyebrow and pouted.

"Sherlock?" John prompted at the zoned-out man in front of him. Sherlock blinked and shook himself, the bleariness in his eyes clearing as he snapped his vision back to John.

"What were you going to say?" John said. Sherlock looked as if he had forgotten what he had said in the first place, but John also remembered the look as the one when Sherlock was thinking about a case and hadn't remembered that John was out and had called him for a pen with no-one there. Or when John asked him if they needed more milk when he went out shopping and Sherlock had said yes, really meaning no, but he was too busy inserting acid into a dead frog to take full notice.

John waited for the distracted look to fade before asking again and this time Sherlock gave a bashful smile.

"I was thinking about something else," he said, "But, it is normal, isn't it?" John was even more confused now.

"What's normal?" he sighed, looking back down to finish the syringe. Sherlock seemed to shift nervously and John had to wait a moment for him to answer.

"To, um, get a bit… well… you know, when you have one of those heart attacks…" Sherlock said. John looked up and frowned.

"I mean, I had full confidence in you John, I mean, I trusted that you'd restart my heart, I knew you wouldn't give up… but what if you had? Given up, I mean," Sherlock said quietly. John's eyes widened in surprise.

"What?" he hissed. He glanced over at the empty bed on the other side of the room. A nurse had come to help Mrs Holmes a while back, managing to move her to the bathroom as the old woman had been sick violently, stomach cramps making her yelp when the nurse tried to touch her.

John glanced back at Sherlock who was looking calmly at him. Too calmly, it was like he had just asked a question about a case, and not the most shocking thing John had ever heard someone ever ask him.

"Sherlock!" John spluttered and Sherlock looked taken aback at just how horrified the doctor was. "Sherlock, what do you mean, 'What if I'd have given up?'" John yelled. He couldn't believe that Sherlock would even ask a thing like that. Sherlock just seemed to blink at him, as if he couldn't understand why John would be so upset by it. John half expected him to ask why he didn't see the logic in the statement.

"Is that how little you think of me?" he asked, "That I'd just give up on you? Sherlock, no! You're my best friend, how could you even _think _like that?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It's a logical thing to consider John," Sherlock reasoned. John stood, flabbergasted, his mouth opening and closing like he couldn't get air.

"What… oh no, don't bother explaining that train of thought to me Sherlock," John said, rolling his eyes and throwing his hands in the air. _Probably just another crazy deduction Sherlock's wrongly jumped to, _John thought, dismissing it. He looked to go back to his work.

"But…" Sherlock said, "It makes sense"

"No Sherlock, it doesn't"

"But, factoring in all the possibilities and past experiences, it's logical to assume that it would be much easier to simply give up than continue to try and save me, right?" Sherlock said. John chuckled and shook his head in disbelief.

"Sherlock, friendship is a bit more than numbers and factors, okay?" he said. He hadn't missed the term _past experiences _and he wasn't about to let that go, but he reasoned that right now it wasn't the best time to question Sherlock on it.

Sherlock looked at him oddly and John sighed, looking back up at him.

"Sherlock, why is it so hard to believe that you don't have to be alone?" John said. Sherlock grimaced and looked away.

"Sherlock," John said.

"She… I… I thought that… there wasn't anybody," Sherlock said, "Categorically, there are only two types of people, good and bad. There aren't any heroes John"

John flinched at that, the familiar words taking on a whole new meaning as Sherlock uttered them in total desolation.

"People don't ever save people. They… they can't. People who need saving, aren't worth it, are they?" Sherlock gave a humourless little laugh, "I'm… diseased… I… I hurt anyone that touches me, anyone… who gets too close. Nobodies supposed to help me"

John shook his head, "Sherlock, no, listen, that's a lie-"

"When I was younger, I used to think like that. Mother said that I used to deceive myself, make myself think that I had someone out there… when I never would," Sherlock continued as if he hadn't heard John's protest, "I don't want to destroy anyone. There's nothing good inside people like me John, there's nothing worth saving in people like me. Nobody… nobody can be that diseased and expect to be saved, can they? They can't just expect somebody to love them".

John looked at his flatmate, the words spilling from his mouth like they were just facts, simply statements, well-rehearsed to a point where they became a twisted version of the truth.

"I did." John said, "I came home after all this time in the army, I thought no one could ever like me ever again, let alone help me. I mean, I had flashbacks _all the time_. I'd had people that had died because I couldn't save them Sherlock, I was a mess, I was _broken_. I had a limp and paranoia and a tremble I couldn't get rid of. But then I met you and you didn't even ask, you just accepted me. You didn't ask about the limp or the fear or the shake. You just… you just took me in".

John gave a chuckle, "You know Sherlock, you saved me as much as you think I saved you. You don't have to be a hero Sherlock, you just have to be a human being, it's what people do, even if you don't always see it," he said. John watched as Sherlock frowned in comprehension and seemed to be struggling to believe it.

"But…" Sherlock breathed, "No, no, I don't… I don't deserve that, I- I made her sick, I'm an addict John, I'm- I'm worthless, I-I can't… Why would you want to do that? Why would you want to save that? I just take up space not worth giving," Sherlock said and John felt like he was splitting at the seams at the shattered conviction in Sherlock's eyes, as if this was the only truth he had ever held onto. "Why?" Sherlock said.

"Because you're best friend," John said, "That's why. You're this incredible, crazy, unbelievable guy that doesn't seem to understand any kind of emotion sometimes and titles himself as this "high-functioning sociopath" but actually has this great empathy like I've never seen before. I wouldn't ever have given up Sherlock, ever. I'd have kept trying till I collapsed Sherlock; I'd never have stopped, not when it was you Sherlock. For Heaven's sake Sherlock, you mean more to me than going out on cases and somewhere to stay! I'd be homeless if I had to if it meant saving you!"

"But if the nurses had stopped you, I'd be-"

"They wouldn't," John said, and Sherlock almost felt a flash of pride at the dangerous, protective look in John's eyes, "I'd have fought them off. They wouldn't have stopped me Sherlock".

The silent promise in John's words resonated in Sherlock's head and he felt his throat tighten painfully. _I'd never stop Sherlock, I'm never gunna stop. I'm never, ever gunna stop saving you, my friend._ Sherlock swallowed and thought of something that had followed him all his life. _Nobody could ever be that perfect that they would give up the rest of their life… to be with me. To beat my heart for me._ Sherlock swallowed hard as every truth he'd ever uttered shattered like glass as he realised that somebody already was beating his heart for him. That it wasn't science or nature that had brought him back, that for once the logic didn't matter and the thing that had brought him back was the man still beating Sherlock's heart from him, screaming for his best friend to come back to him like it was the only thing that mattered. It _was_ the only thing that mattered.

Sherlock felt a crack in the shield he'd built over the years and then the tightness in his throat was gone and he heard someone sobbing loudly as he saw John rush forwards. And then nothing else was there because John had grabbed him and he felt his best friend support him as wetness streamed down his face. _I'm not crying, I'm not_, Sherlock told himself even as sobs wracked through him and he shook into the frame of arms around him, John holding steady as Sherlock's exhausted body trembled violently with gasping cries.

"It's alright Sherlock," John muttered and Sherlock sniffed loudly. All of the injuries, all of the torment and the pain, and now the thing that hurt the most was also the thing that made Sherlock feel like he could take on the world again. Scared as he was, scared now that he didn't know any truth anymore, that now he was so confused as to what he was supposed to do next with all this new data, Sherlock could still hear John whispering something about him being there. He heard John laugh and he looked up.

"Six billion people in the world Sherlock and you thought that no-one was gunna be waiting for you?" John laughed and Sherlock felt his own eyes sparkle in hope and trust, the words he had thought so many years ago bouncing back, twisted beyond recognition in a way that gave Sherlock more strength than he thought his damaged body could muster, his thoughts flickering his brother as he thought of the two men that had given up so much to take care of him. He wasn't sure what he was going to do after this was over, but he was sure that they could fill in those truths for him.

_Over 6 billion people live in the world_. _Couples, families, friends. And yet, in all of those people, I managed to find the one that would never leave me._

* * *

Mycroft snarled in frustration and thumped a fist onto the table. "He has to be somewhere!" he growled and the shorter man across the table from him visibly flinched.

"We've looked everywhere Mr Holmes, we've got our best men on it and-"

"Well, it's obviously not good enough then, is it?" Mycroft seethed and the shorter man, Lestrade or whatever his name was, looked disgruntled.

"Look, I've tried everything from-"

Mycroft's phone beeped and he irritably pulled it out. "A moment, please," Mycroft told the D.I angrily and looked at the text.

_Better take of that jacket and put some shorts on, it's honestly like a furnace in here… or is it just me? Hmm, it could be the hospital, or maybe I'm getting too excited and ahead of the game.  
__I'd hurry on back now, spit spot. Wouldn't want you to miss the fun.  
__Matthew Leach (glad to see you found my name out Mr Holmes)_

Mycroft blanched. "Lestrade," Mycroft said, "Get everyone to the hospital. Now." Lestrade looked up at him, puzzled.

"What?"

"Do it! Now!" Mycroft snarled and Lestrade shot up, shouting orders around the police station. Mycroft looked back at the text and bit his lip. This guy was really beginning to grate on him. Growling, he grabbed his coat, his assistant following him as he stormed from the office, her police visitor nametag shining "Poppy" as she trotted to keep up with him. She cringed, seeing Mycroft Holmes like this usually wasn't a good sign. Usually this meant that someone was going to end up in the worst jail her boss could find _very _quickly, or something worse was about to happen to them. No doubt for threatening a certain younger brother.

_And God forbid that anyone ever hurt Sherlock Holmes while Mycroft Holmes is still alive_, she thought. _But then again, knowing Mr Holmes, he'd find some way to protect his brother even if he _wasn't _there. _

* * *

The taxi cab pulled up outside the abandoned factory later than intended, the tires splashing puddles as it pulled up. Martin Teres took the liberty of killing the driver before he got out and straightened his jacket. Nothing ever messed up a Dolce Gabbana like shooting somebody in the face. Sighing, he grumbled whole heartedly at the cold as he shoved his hands in his pockets and sulked towards the factory.

"Not very damn imaginative," Teres growled, "Damn factories and warehouses are like breeders for bad guys". Throwing open the side door he stalked inside, hitching up his backpack as he did.

"Hey honey, I'm home," he shouted, the sarcasm in his voice cutting through the air like a knife. He walked forwards slowly, scanning the factory.

"Ah, Mr Teres, so glad you came," a voice said behind him and Teres spun round, gun pointed at the man.

"Do that again, scare me like that once more, and I'll shoot you in the head," Teres snarled.

"Oh Mr Teres, come now, don't be so boring," Matthew Leach smiled, the smile looking unnatural on his face, like that of the Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland. Or, at least, that was how Teres saw him.

"You're one freaking creepy guy, ya know that?" Teres said, sitting down on one of the two chairs set out in the centre of the factory floor.

Leach chuckled and sat down too, putting his hands on his lap innocently. Teres raised an eyebrow and threw his phone for Leach to catch. Leach caught it frowning, reading what was on screen.

_I hear you are trying to kill a Sherlock Holmes.  
__Consider me interested.  
__Yours,  
__M._

Leach raised his eyebrows and tossed the phone back to Teres who was sat looking at his nail as if considering cleaning them, but Leach could only guess that he was observing the blood on his hands that had splattered from the unfortunate driver of the taxi.

"Got it yesterday," Teres explained, "Some weirdo wantin' in apparently. You good for it?"

"Your job is to keep focus on what_ I_ require you to do, Mr Teres, not some spammer who fancied giving you a text. Comprehend?" Leach snarled. Teres shrugged.

"Hey, sure thing boss, I got it. Chill you know, it's almost ready," Teres said, "Got enough c4 on that thing to blow it sky high"

"Good, then it's all set?"

"Yeah, yeah, quit acting so evil villain on me, I got 'em ready," Teres laughed. _God, this guy was a drag. _

"I pay you to make the bombs Mr Teres, not to comment on them, or me for that matter," Leach said tightly and Teres smirked.

"Sure thing boss," he smiled. Snarling, Leach got up.

"I will call you when I require detonation Mr Teres, I'm sure you can handle that?"

Teres grinned. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure I can manage that". Leach nodded and turned, leaving swiftly. Teres sat, slouching as he watched him go. Smiling, he slowly raised his hand and, putting his fingers into a gun shape, pointed them at the back of Leach's head.

"Bang, bang," he whispered. He laughed as the door swung shut behind Leach and he took out a small stick of dynamite he'd been rewiring and a CD player from his rucksack. Humming, he grabbed his tools and tinkered lazily, _Disco Inferno _playing loudly in the open space from the CD player. Teres smiled. _This game was getting more and more fun by the moment. _

* * *

Sherlock's phone rang, making John jump just before he was about to inject the detective.

"Dammit Sherlock, will you turn that off?" he yelled. Sherlock grinned, apparently pleased to be getting out of the injection, reaching for him phone. John rolled his eyes and gave him the shot anyway while his other arm was still. Sherlock rolled his head to look at him with an unimpressed stare.

"Ow," he said dryly.

"Shouldn't have turned away then should you?" John retorted.

"Not my fault when you have a great big needle near me," Sherlock growled.

"It's not going to kill you Sherlock," John protested.

"Says you"

John sighed and turned away, clearing up some stuff when he heard Sherlock say something beneath his breath.

"What?" John said, turning, met with Sherlock's phone far too close to his eyes. "Hey, Sherlock, give it here!" John cried.

"Look at the message," Sherlock said insistently and John took it from him, reading it.

"Mycroft was at the police station when he received it, somebody who works there sent it to me," Sherlock explained.

"You got people in the police station sending you things?" John asked and Sherlock gave an indignant sound.

"Believe it or not, yes I do," he said and John raised his hands in mock surrender.

"What do you think it means?" John said and Sherlock was quiet for a moment.

"I think it means that in a short while, we are going to be very much in trouble".

* * *

_**A/N **__Well, after much planning and more idea getting, the chapter count for this fic is looking to be another 3-4 chapters after t__his, so plenty of time, right? :S Poor Sherlock and the gang aren't through just yet! Lol, anyway, next chapter up very soon hopefully, perhaps with a double update this week :) Thanks for reading!_


	25. Sacrificed

_**A/N **__Okay, writers block doesn't even begin to describe what I have had this past week. :O I'm so sorry! Honestly, I know you'll think "Jeez, what a crummy excuse *What a jerk!*", but I had the whole chapter planned out and, as my friends have heard extensively, I haven't at all been able to just sit down and do, it's been an absolute nightmare, but once I started it was simple enough :/ It's just not as easy to start ;P So MASSIVE apologies on my part for that :S  
I don't know quite how this chapter will read so I can only hope that it's okay :S  
Anyway, bad guy's plan coming to a head in this chap, guys. We have the bad guys, we have their motive and we have their threat. And now it's time to do some more hurting and show some evil-doings! Finally!_

_To all reviewers, alerters and favouriters: all of the emails I receive telling me about you guys reading this is like a little piece of gold dust to me, so thank you guys so much, I feel like the richest gal in the world when I see those bits of love :)  
__**  
Disclaimer: -_- **__This is why you should never buy a homemade ready-to-store time travel prison-box type thingy-ma-jiggy from art students. A) The thing, I have recently discovered, is made from crackers which my flying monkeys devoured, meaning that the recently-captured-inside Sherlock escaped with ease. B) I got no manual for it so spent 16 hours trawling weird conspiracy sites that this website won't let me name (they must be totally top secret and onto something ;P) for instructions and C) I got no receipt!  
__Damn these warranties and such!_

* * *

Car horns honked loudly as Mycroft Holmes' car sped down the busy roads of London, the speedometer reading many more miles than what was considered safe. _I don't care about that, _Mycroft had told his driver, _just get me to the hospital, get me to my brother. _The driver had looked dubious at that, worried no doubt about traffic and whatever trivialities the man saw on the road. Mycroft couldn't see any of that for the cloud of thoughts cluttered around in his head. He'd thought to delete them, to organise them, but that was more Sherlock's area of expertise, Mycroft took in what he saw and used it all, making it more practical for things other than cases, but also difficult to control and Mycroft was beginning to regret it as he lost himself to a jumble of thoughts.

He ran over the message in his text. Obvious, simple to deduct… and utterly unstoppable. Mycroft almost laughed at the realisation. Leach's intent may be obvious to him, but in the same sentiment, it was perfect. There was nothing he could do except from obeying Leach's command to return to the hospital, and by that time… Mycroft didn't think about that. He wasn't going to be too late, he wasn't, or at least, the idea of being was too unfathomable to comprehend. _It's honestly like a furnace in here. _Leach's message screened in Mycroft's head. A man wanting recognition with a target as huge as Sherlock Holmes? Mycroft shuddered and willed the car to go faster. _Furnace. _It was oh-so-obvious.

There was a bomb. There was a bomb in the hospital.

* * *

"Let go of me! Are you insane? Let go!"

Mrs Holmes was shouting, but the noise was still only coming out as a rasp. The nurses barely had to dodge the weak kicks Mrs Holmes was emitting as they attempted to move her. Sherlock had worked out the text faster than John had ever seen him work and the word "bomb" had slipped from his lips. _Evacuate the hospital, _John had thought, _tell the nurses he's a detective, call Lestrade if you get the chance._ The nurses had taken one look at the text and had flown out of the room, the speakers in the hospitals blaring out commands. _Evacuate immediately._

John looked over at Sherlock who was biting his lip in a mixture of anxiety (an emotion John would have sold the earth to never have to have seen on his best friend) and what John recognised as a kind of fear, fear perhaps of what he imagined his mother would do to him. John watched him closely, Sherlock never taking his eyes from his mother as the nurses tried to get her out of the bed, the old woman spluttering loudly.

John saw Sherlock swallow and then John blinked in surprise as a little cough escaped him, as if Sherlock was attempting to cover up the tumult of emotions swirling around inside him and John smiled compassionately, his hand going to rest on his friend's. Sherlock didn't look up at him but he seemed to compose a little, swallowing a little harder and straightening, blinking back the feelings showing in his eyes. John squeezed his hand and Sherlock looked down at it, as if only just realising that John had put his hand there at all.

"You believe him? You believe that…that liar? He's no detective; he couldn't even stop his own father, never mind a criminal! Let go of me!" Sherlock's mother cried and Sherlock gave a full body flinch, his hand drawing away quickly from John's. John frowned, the reference to Sherlock's father intriguing him, but he ignored it. He had to be taking care of this Holmes, not asking questions about another.

"_His_ fault his father left, _his _fault I'm sick, his fault, his fault, his fault!" Mrs Holmes' voiced was cracking and she seemed to not be able to breathe for a moment. Sherlock's face was burning with shame. The noise in the room was chaotic and booming in John's ears, but under it all he heard the tiny whimper next to him.

"It's not my fault. You can't blame me, it's not my fault," Sherlock was saying, over and over again, like a chant, and John heard it louder than all the screaming in the room, the heart monitors bleeping obnoxiously, clambering for attention.

"It's not my fault he left, not my fault, stop it, stop it," Sherlock continued, each syllable crashing like a wave onto John's heart, like a rock in the sea.

"Sherlock, don't listen, shut your ears," John said, crouching and he was suddenly reminded of a small child that had come into the hospital once for an MRI and he had cried nonstop at the sound of the machine until John had managed to calm him down.

Sherlock seemed to be oblivious to the words and John shook his shoulders lightly.

"Look at me Sherlock," John said. The noise in the room seemed to have backgrounded as John focused on his terrified flatmate. John wasn't sure what scared him most, the woman hissing remarks at the nurses across the room, or the memories that John could almost see behind the far-away look Sherlock was trapped in. _Something had snapped inside his mother when his father left, something had been ripped out… something she thought Sherlock had torn from her. _

"You didn't do anything wrong Sherlock, listen to me," John whispered, "Come on, trust me. You do trust me right, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked at John for the first time and nodded, no hesitation this time.

"Yeah," he said. John nodded back at him and Sherlock glanced back at his mother. He quickly turned his head back away and John smiled at him.

"Let's get you out of here, okay?" John said and Sherlock breathed a shaky breath, giving a little chuckle. He gestured down at his thoroughly bandaged legs.

"Good luck with that Doctor Watson," he joked and John laughed, hooking his arm under Sherlock's.

"Oh, that old detective wit of yours, never thought I'd miss it," John muttered sarcastically.

"But of course John," Sherlock said, "And I'm sure with your skills I'll be out in no time". John scowled at him.

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit Sherlock," John said, unimpressed, but still smirking.

"That's demonstrably untrue," Sherlock said, and he looked about to continue when he let out a howl of pain.

John swore he heard a cruel laugh from the other side of the room and a cruel comment that he forced himself to ignore if he wanted to stop himself from hurling something over there. Sherlock gasped as he finally got control of his voice again and he gulped in air.

"Ow," he managed to mutter and John winced at the shakiness to the fake, blasé voice that Sherlock tried his hardest to keep level under the pain.

"This maybe isn't the best idea John," Sherlock said and automatically John knew that he had to do this now, or he'd never do it as Sherlock's tone had become the prelude to the persuasive tone the detective always used on John, the one that had persuaded him from a lot of things, in a lot of situations. If he didn't do it now, he wouldn't be able to bring himself to in a moment.

"Okay, one big pull and that's it," John said, "Listen, Sherlock, it's going to hurt, your legs are still badly burnt-"

"Obviously, John or else they wouldn't sting so much," Sherlock snarled and John rolled his eyes, continuing before Sherlock purposefully side-tracked him.

"Would you rather be here when the bomb goes?" John asked.

"Well, now you mention it after_ that _experience, maybe it'd hurt less just to stay here and-"

"Sherlock!" John warned but then he saw the flicker in Sherlock's eyes. Apprehension. Fear. Concern.

_Concern? _John thought…and then he understood. It wasn't concern for himself…but for John. He didn't want John to get hurt either. John gulped back a string of words that threatened to spill from his mouth. He watched the mask of mingled jokiness and calm replace itself and John softened.

"It's gunna be okay, I've got you alright?" John said, "One, two, three!"

Sherlock's cries turned into a scream as John pulled him up, even as gently as he could. The detective's face crinkled in pain and John had to look away, wishing he could block out the sound of his best friend's yells, even when Sherlock gave a shout for John to stop. That one…that cry hurt the most. For both of them, John scrutinised. Sherlock sat finally, gasping; his eyes clenched shut as he leaned over the side of the bed.

"John," he groaned, "I feel ill". John looked closely at his face, as close as he could with Sherlock huddled, gasping for air. He looked paler than John thought possible, cold sweat clinging to his hair.

"Sherlock!"

John's head snapped up when he heard the shout, a tornado of black suit and tie bustled in to crouch by John and the ex-soldier only just managed to recognise it as Mycroft before the older Holmes was talking to him in rushed tones.

"It's a bomb, we must get everyone out," Mycroft said quickly.

"I know, Sherlock worked it out, they're evacuating now," John said. Mycroft looked almost proudly at his little brother and put a hand on Sherlock's arm to steady him as Sherlock tried to move.

"Let's go," John said urgently and together they struggled Sherlock into a wheelchair, the nurses doing the same for Mrs Holmes.

That was when it hit.

The blast shook the room like something from an old Star Trek movie and John had barely made the rather childish comparison before the entire room shuddered and the nurses screamed, the tremor making John yelp and grab for the bedside, equipment falling over, the IV racks collapsing and Mycroft had to pull John back as the metal frame almost fell upon him. John heard Sherlock give a yelp of pain against the jarring against his leg and John skittered back with Mycroft as the shelves emptied their contents, bottles smashing and sending shards flying everywhere.

"Where the hell is that?" John cried when one last jolt sent him to his knees as he tried to get up from the now glass-ridden floor.

The tremor died and the nurses stopped screaming, the noise of something crashing a short distance away, someone shouting for help in a room nearby. Then, stillness. The utter inertness that swamped the room was like being frozen and John felt his heart pumping in his chest.

"Where was that?" John whispered. Silence for a moment before anyone answered.

"Sounded quite far… over to the East Wing I think," one of the nurses said softly, her voice sounding muted after the previous pandemonium. John looked at Mycroft, the older brother's grave expression telling John all he needed to know.

"There are more," Mycroft said lowly, "It's a game…he's working his way to us…"

"We need to get out. Now." John glanced over at Sherlock whose hands were gripping his legs tightly in agony.

"What about the patients in East Wing?" a nurse asked quietly and there was a silence again.

"Let's hope they got them out," Mycroft said, "But we have to move".

Mycroft's cold attitude made the nurses gape, but John nodded, already moving to Sherlock. "Alright, everyone together, let's go," he said.

* * *

Panic didn't begin to describe the chaos outside. People were running, some were with doctors, others alone, groups of patients and nurses and family and friends and… John snapped back to attention as he heard Mycroft yell for him amongst the crowd.

"John, the quickest way out?" Mycroft yelled, and John pointed down the corridor, yelling as loud as he could over the thunder of people around him.

"Emergency exit," he cried and he saw the heckle of nurses follow him with Mrs Holmes as they pushed down the corridor, the swarms of bodies crushing and almost painful in their frenzy. There was suddenly another shudder and then a crashing, ear splittingly loud and John yelled out as the noise enveloped them, the shuddering knocking him into people in the corridor. The floor seemed to almost jar beneath them and John slipped, almost going down. He yelped in pain as a cut flourished on his hand as it reached out, latching onto a fire extinguisher and John was able to see a little blood trickle from the wound. He growled, his eyes happening to glance up in frustration. _Oh God, _John thought as he looked up, heart sinking.

"Sherlock!" John yelled, "Mycroft!"

Suddenly there was a crack and the warning was lost in sound as the ceiling fractured, the split John had spotted breaking under the tension and John's scream was lost in the terrible noise as tiling and concrete fell, and John saw the older Holmes brother disappear beneath the rubble, the debris kicking up a plume of dust as it fell.

* * *

"Sherlock! Mycroft!"

Mycroft spun round as he heard the shout and realised too late what he had missed. _Deduction is good, _he thought ironically, _but the legwork never did suit me. _He barely had time to look up before the ceiling above him splintered and something hit him hard. Mycroft felt himself being thrown to the ground, the something hitting his side hard, knocking the wind from him and causing him to gasp, winded. His back crashed into the ground and Mycroft heard an explosion of rubble only a few feet away from him, the reverberations across the ground shaking his throbbing head. He coughed, dust clinging to his throat and making it achingly tight.

_He wasn't dead. _That was his first deduction, the second being: _Something hit me from the side. _And then it all came at one, a rush of deductions blasting into his skull painfully and he cried out at the implications of his thoughts.

Sherlock. _Oh God no. _Mycroft frantically forced his eyes open, ignoring the flare of pain to his splitting headache, the grit in his eyes making them sting as he kept them exposed to the grey-coloured swamp of dirt in the air. Something was lying on top of him and Mycroft recognised it beyond any doubt, the familiar brown curls pressing just below his chin, the lifeless face resting on his neck. Mycroft tried to yell for help, a doctor, even for Dr Watson, but the dust felt like it was caking the inside of his throat and the noise came out as merely a high pitched sound that Mycroft would deny to the day he died that he ever made.

He moved slightly, terror fuelling his movements as he managed to prop himself up and see for himself. Mycroft pulled the body from him, laying it on his lap as he pushed the brown hair from his brother's face. _Please no. _Sherlock had seen the crack in the ceiling, heard John's warning, and then, Mycroft knew, had saved his brother's life. Mycroft winced at the amount of agony his brother had endured to build up the energy in which to even stand, let alone save him, and there, in the cloudy mist that had sprung from the debris, covered in dirt and flecks of the rubble, Mycroft allowed one singular sob to escape him. _God, not Sherlock, not my brother, _please, _not my brother, _Mycroft begged silently and he cursed himself for not being able to speak over the tightness in his throat that Mycroft would put down to the contaminated air later on. Mycroft Holmes did not cry.

Mycroft put his hand to the side of his brother's neck and felt the thread pulse residing there. Stronger, desperate, Mycroft coughed, his throat beginning to clear.

"Sherlock," Mycroft croaked, "Sherlock, please, wake up, come on brother" Mycroft didn't know what to say, what to do, God dammit, this was his little brother, why was this happening to him? Mycroft was supposed to look after him, he was the oldest, he was Sherlock's protector. He saved him from dad, or mother, the children at school, from the monsters under the bed, the hallucinations and the drugs and the criminals on the streets all those years later, _this wasn't how it is supposed to be. _

"Please, Sherlock?" Mycroft said, and he realised he was begging. Begging Sherlock, and a God he wasn't sure existed, and anyone who would listen. "I promise Sherlock, I'll be a better brother, I'll never let you get hurt again...damn it Sherlock, wake up!" Mycroft yelled, desperate, his voice feeling strained and painful, sounding even worse no doubt.

Mycroft gritted his teeth as another tremor raced through the hospital, closer this time, another bomb, and Mycroft shook Sherlock, vision blurring a little. _It's the air, it's the air, it's hard to see, making my eyes sting, _Mycroft would have told himself, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He'd failed. He'd failed his little brother. And now, now the only person that mattered in the world, the only family Mycroft had ever truly had, was gone. Because he hadn't been there, hadn't been strong enough, hadn't been quick enough… and Sherlock had paid the price. Mycroft held the body closer, another sob erupting from him, praying all the while, but in the end he ended up asking his brother, somehow willing him to hear him, telling him over and over that he was the only thing that mattered, that he was never supposed to face anything alone.

And then, almost too quiet to hear, a cough. A pained groan and then Mycroft was calling him back, yelling for Sherlock to wake up and Sherlock blinked suddenly, pain everywhere but where his brother was pulling him to him, tears staining Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock's confused brain tried to process it… his brother never cried, but then Mycroft gave a peculiar sobbing noise. Sherlock pretended not to hear, pretended that they were really exchanging witty banter or making fun of each other or facing off as worst enemies, and not here where the room smelt like death and rubble and smoke and the only thing real was that they were both alive and Mycroft was holding Sherlock so tight he thought that he'd never let go ever again.

"You're safe, you're safe," Mycroft kept repeating and Sherlock could only nod numbly, trying to sort his thoughts into something resembling logical. _Mycroft was safe, Mycroft was okay, Mycroft was not-dead. Mycroft, brother, Mycroft. _Sherlock managed a weak "Yes," and then Mycroft was extracting himself from where Sherlock didn't even remember wrapping his arms around him, moving slowly.

"Sherlock? Mycroft? Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked up and round, and through the dust saw them coming towards them, John pushing away rubble to get through, the posse of nurses with his mother behind, the old woman looking disgusted but coughing so loudly that Sherlock wondered if something more than the dust was affecting the lady.  
"Sherlock!" John cried, strong arms enveloping the detective, helping him up. Sherlock almost screeched in pain, biting the inside of his mouth hard enough to draw blood in an effort to keep quiet.

"It's okay Sherlock," John said, "It's okay. We're nearly out" Sherlock nodded and for a few moments he recognised movement in his limbs but there was nothing to prove it as his eyes were clenched shut against the sheer agony that ripped through him with every step.

Something though was shouting at him in his head, loud enough to take over the pain and only when he saw spots of light, sunlight, on his closed lids, did it shout loud enough to be heard inside his mind. He recognised somebody shouting outside his own mind and he opened his eyes enough to see the commotion, sunlight stinging his eyes. John was shouting and Sherlock glanced tiredly to where he was yelling to. Mother had collapsed, her frail body tumbling to the ground.

"She's going to seize!" Sherlock heard John cry, "Distress from the move, get her into the position, stat!". Sherlock felt John's arms leave him and he yelped, thinking he'd fall. Then Mycroft was holding him, John going to aid the nurses and Sherlock felt like he was going to pass out too. His head was pounding, everything was happening too fast for his muddled brain to process.

"John," Sherlock groaned, the shouting in his head now becoming a word, and suddenly Sherlock jerked in Mycroft's arms, as if hit by electricity.

Mycroft held on, but Sherlock was frantic, pulling towards the doo they'd come from. "Sherlock, stop it!" Mycroft demanded, but his younger brother was yelling too, one sentence, again and again.

"She's still in there! She's still in there!" Mycroft frowned at the words…_she? _John caught on a moment after Mycroft did and their eyes met.

"Oh God," John said, a nurse reeling of Mrs Holmes' condition to him and he looked torn for a moment, before Mycroft nodded for him to get back to work.

"Tamila," Mycroft said. _Of course. _Sherlock had caught onto it faster than Mycroft, but it was so obvious now that Mycroft almost screamed in frustration. The bombs had started east, and worked through, the wards being evacuated by order of most in danger to the least. Sherlock should have been last, the bombs had been going off leading to him, the pattern trapping him in, but…

"I got evacuated…when I worked it out… the ward next to mine didn't…it's last to be hit…." Sherlock gasped and Mycroft noticed the pale colour to his face, the heaving of his chest. Tamila was still inside, still trapped.

Sherlock jerked against Mycroft's hold again, shouting as loud as his voice could go.

"She'll die, she's still there, I need to go back!" Sherlock shouted and Mycroft held tighter.

"No, Sherlock, no!" he barked and Mycroft could hear John shouting too, but Sherlock kept on pulling, his strength leaving him moment by moment.

"Please, please, let me go back, it's my fault!" Sherlock said pitifully, sagging a little in Mycroft's iron grip and Mycroft's stomach churned at the guilt in his younger brother's voice, something Mycroft rarely heard.

"Please, please Mycroft, let me go, let me get back in," Sherlock pleaded and Mycroft felt the energy leave his sibling, Sherlock's eyes looking duller by the moment. Mycroft crouched and laid Sherlock against the building, Sherlock still trying to get up. Mycroft stood, gaze averted from Sherlock.

"I'll go," he said, voice just over a whisper. He felt Sherlock tense from where he was propped by the building, John's shocked gaze flitting to him before Mycroft saw mother jolt as a seizure took hold, John calling orders to the nurses.

"No, Mycroft, stop," Sherlock said, and Mycroft heard a solidity in his voice that strengthened his resolve, "This is-"

"Insanity?" Mycroft said coolly, "Hmm, I do believe it runs in the family little brother"

"Please, no, Mycroft, don't!"

Sherlock gave another cry, shouting as best he could, a mixture of pleas and threats, but Mycroft was already walking towards the door and inside the building, the furnace of heat from within the hospital already evident as he stepped inside.

* * *

_**A/N **So__, since next week's chapter is, again, all planned out, it's already all here *taps head*. But since it looks a rather interesting & challenging chapter, it should be out sooner :) Hurrah! Anyway, feel free to comment upon it, good, bad or just plain ugly, thanks for reading, and hope you enjoyed! *Fingers and toes crossed here ;P*_


	26. Enough

_**A/N**__ When the words don't wanna appear, they really don't want to :S It's been insane and then all of a sudden while I'm sat in Biology yesterday I suddenly yell (to my friend on the table behind me who was then very scared) "I've got it! I know how to write this Fanfiction" and between dentist appointments, fencing and sheer writers block/no doubt laziness I imagine, I finally managed to get this out!_

_So, to all reviewers/alerters/favouriters: Firstly, thank you soooooo much for all of your reviews and lovely button pressing, it is very, very much appreciated and loved (Without you guys I would be weeks and weeks and weeks behind :S) and secondly: Thank you for waiting! This week has been inexcusable and I apologise profusely! I'm so sorry!_

_A note: This chapter is starting with a flashback of Sherlock in his university years so don't be alarmed Mentions of drugs but is mostly very very very mild :D_

_**Disclaimer: **__After some great ideas from Mellyrn, I have taken upon the momentous task of: Making Friends With Sherlock Holmes. Impossible no? I have stalked him for tastes, favourite things and hangouts and have concluded on several of my most charming ways and demeanours. I am going to "accidently" bump into him on a walk (I am nabbing the neighbour's dog to walk, he'll never suspect a thing), pretend to be lost and ask for directions, from him… That'll work right? Especially if John is with him, he'll make him be nice! So, probability of this working? Anyone good at maths? :D_

* * *

"_Sherlock, if you think that I'm just going to give up on this and walk away then you have another thing coming"_

"_Oh yeah, 'cos you know _so _much about drugs, right Mycroft?" Sherlock snarled and Mycroft sighed heavily, closing his eyes tightly for a moment as he tried not to listen to the exact words coming from his brother. He was always like this when he took those dreadful drugs, he was always irate, angry, or at least, he was whenever Mycroft came to come and clean him up after particularly vicious dosages. Sometimes Mycroft felt like Sherlock did it just to spite him, but he didn't want to believe that. He didn't want to even think about that being true._

"_Stop it Sherlock," Mycroft warned and it was only a second before Sherlock was up in his face, so close that Mycroft could feel some of Sherlock's overhanging curls brush his face as Sherlock snarled at him._

"_Stop what Mycroft?" It was a challenge, goading, cruel, and Mycroft had to grit his teeth not to rise to it. He had had a long day, and his stupid brother playing up again was the latest insult to injury on one hell of a week. He'd only recently been given a promotion in his job for the government, and so far it had been one thing after another. The only thing worse was that now his younger brother was only a hairs breadth from being kicked from his university course with no home, no money, and no job to speak of, if you didn't count the odd case for the new Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard._

"_What is it that you're saying I should stop Mycroft?" Sherlock growled, "You don't even know what it is that I do" Mycroft looked at him pityingly._

"_This." Mycroft said simply, "You have to stop this" He saw Sherlock almost soften for a moment before he sneered, the drugs making him sway a little where he stood, glaring at Mycroft with hard, resentful eyes._

_Sherlock snarled and turned away furiously, making Mycroft roll his eyes and sit down on one of the boxes that filled the room. Sherlock had been on his university course for over 12 months now and he had still never unpacked his boxes. As if he had suspected that he was going to get kicked out. _Well, you're not out just yet, _Mycroft thought challengingly to himself, _not while I'm around.

"_Shut up Mycroft," Sherlock snapped, and Mycroft wondered if he had 'heard his thinking', like he sometimes said he could. "What do you care? Get out, leave me alone, get back to your fancy job and leave me to mine" Sherlock said and Mycroft could have sworn that he'd heard a tone of bitterness in the words._

"_What do I care?" Mycroft said, "I care because if you get kicked out of university then it's me who'll have to sort you out! It's me that's going to have to take the fall Sherlock and God help me if you think that I'm going to give you more money to feed this addiction of yours!"  
"It's not an addiction," Sherlock said, his voice quiet but venomous._

"_This is your last chance Sherlock; they're not going to give you another! Not the professors, not the people you're on the course with-"_

"_They don't care," Sherlock put in bitterly, the sudden statement sounding almost sober if you didn't know the usually stoic, secretive consultant. Mycroft cringed at the memory of Sherlock's earlier school days came to him. He'd been lonely then too. He pushed back the sentiment, forcing himself to remain focused._

"_And if you keep disobeying the rules, keep taking these drugs, then you'll be lucky if you're not put behind bars, never mind getting shunned from the police force!" Mycroft ranted, "And don't say that that I only care if it goes to blackening my name, Sherlock, you know that's not true! They won't give you a second chance again Sherlock!"_

"_And you?" _

_Mycroft stopped and blinked. Sherlock was sitting, looking almost calm if not for the blaze in his eyes as he burned a hole into the space between Mycroft's eyes. _

"_Would you give me a second chance?" Sherlock said, spite dripping from his voice. Mycroft felt the ever present tension rise in the air and Mycroft stiffened angrily. _

"_Don't you put this on me Sherlock," Mycroft warned but Sherlock only laughed. _

"_Oh no, God forbid you have to take the blame Mycroft, if you'd have had the guts to be there when you had to be then-"_

"_Don't you _dare _say that I wasn't there for you!" Mycroft yelled and Sherlock jumped up from his seat, storming over to Mycroft again, who stood up and stepped back. Sherlock and him had had scuffles before and although Sherlock could usually win while sobered up, the drugs made him slow and Mycroft would resort to restraining him as the narcotics put an angry, unstoppable streak in his younger brother. Those times Mycroft remembered having to beg his brother to stop, beg him not to make him have to hold onto him any longer while Sherlock thrashed angrily on the floor where Mycroft had to pin him._

_Sherlock didn't come as close this time, but still stood panting, the glare looking murderous now and Mycroft tensed himself for whatever was to happen next._

"_I hate you," Sherlock spat, "I hate you". Mycroft tried not to flinch. He kept his body tight and closed off, but even through all of his defences, those words hit through the hardest of anything Sherlock had ever said to him. They'd fought and jibed and shouted, they'd screamed at each other and then not talked for weeks, but nothing hurt like the three words that slid through Mycroft's defences. Nothing hit so hard that Mycroft felt like shaking his brother, make him take them back. _He can say what he want, _something in Mycroft's head was saying, _He's a grown man. _But it didn't feel like it. To Mycroft it only felt like his little brother, telling him that he hated him. And that was what made it hurt even more. _

_Sherlock stared at him with brimming eyes, looking like tears were threatening to spill over, but Mycroft knew that they wouldn't. They'd had what was almost an unspoken agreement that they never cried, not in front of each other. Only when Sherlock was little had he ever cried in front of Mycroft. And Mycroft…Sherlock had never seen Mycroft cry. Mycroft was indestructible. _

"_You were supposed to protect me from her, and you didn't," Sherlock said, and Mycroft immediately knew what they were talking about. It wasn't often that they talked straight up, it was all riddles and codes and clues, talking about one thing but meaning completely the other. It wasn't often that what they said was really what they meant. _

"_She still got to me, even when you tried to stop her, she…" Sherlock trailed off and looked defiantly at Mycroft, "Get out."_

"_Sherlock-"_

"_GET OUT" Sherlock yelled and Mycroft felt a shove even before he realised Sherlock had moved, "I said I hate you! Now, get out and leave me alone!" _

"_Sherlock, don't you dare do this, don't shut me out again!"  
"I'll do what I God damn well like Mycroft, leave me alone!" Sherlock yelled and the shove was there again, Sherlock reaching round to open the door._

"_Sherlock, please, don't do this! Not again-"_

"_I don't want to hear it!"_

_Mycroft felt himself being bustled out of the room but nothing else seemed to feel real. Numbness seemed to set in as he heard the door slam in his face and he stood in the corridor, Sherlock's angry shouts incoherent, whether from the muffling effects of the wall between them or because he was now too overtaken by the drugs to even care what he was saying any more. Mycroft didn't even remember getting back to the office, or why he was there. He just knew that he arrived at some point in the night, the offices around him empty and that he had sat at some time at his desk, staring blankly like the computer in front of him wasn't on, that it was showing the CCTV he had set up in his brother's flat. That Sherlock was crying. _

_Mycroft spent all night in the office that day. And the next. And possibly the next, but Mycroft could never remember. It had only been the first night that Sherlock had cried, and that had broken Mycroft's heart enough to hear his sobs that he had almost gone right back to comfort him, to hold him. But he hadn't. Instead he had stayed, feeling like a coward, the only words going through his head were Sherlock's. _You were supposed to protect me… and you didn't. I hate you. _Mycroft pretended like he didn't care, watching his brother sob as the drugs died out of his system and he was left sat in the dark, crying quietly. Mycroft wasn't sure if it was the drugs or if Sherlock really was as filled with regret as he looked, but Mycroft tried to believe that it was the former. It hurt less to believe that._

_He fell asleep there, sat in his office, trying not to think why he wasn't acting like an older brother and going back to his brother, why he wasn't there right now saying that he was sorry, that he knew that Sherlock couldn't really have meant it, that it was "ok". It wasn't okay. It had never been okay. _

_But instead Mycroft had fallen asleep, and only a few miles away, Sherlock had quietly cried, his flat dimmed. The tears came, half the withdrawal, half the gut wrenching guilt that came to him. _I hate you. _Sherlock closed his eyes._

"_I'm sorry," He whispered, "I'm sorry" Sherlock kept up his apologies for a few moments, sobbing quietly all the while, but valiantly trying to cover them up, or at least tried to hide them, even when he was sure no-one was watching._

_Mycroft never heard the apology, and when they stopped speaking this time, it was something different to everything they had done before. It took thirteen months for them to talk, thirteen months that Mycroft watched his brother self-destruct. He intervened, anonymously of course, a call to Lestrade here, a recommendation there, perhaps a few bribes to keep him in the university, but nothing that he would ever remember. It was never enough. Not when Sherlock was taking those foul drugs on an almost daily basis, passing out in his flat or causing trouble. Mycroft tried to ignore it like he didn't care, but that time was the worst time of his life._

_Finally, when they did talk, it was like nothing had ever happened. They bickered and argued and insulted each other, they never mentioned what had happened that night ever again, but Mycroft never really believed that they had ever started talking again, not really. They never really just _talked _anymore. It was all business. Never was there a sincere "how are you?" or a "What's the matter?" Mycroft tried not to think about how he regretted that._

* * *

Mycroft coughed into the smoke. Why did that memory come to mind? It certainly wasn't helpful; if he'd have had the sense to delete it then he would, because now it was simply a distraction. He had closed the doors when he had entered the building, sealing off his brother's cries from outside, for fear that they would make him change his mind, make him turn back. He couldn't turn back. He had to do this for Sherlock.

Feeling along the walls, Mycroft couldn't see a thing through the smoke, it was so thick. He had a map in his head, a layout of the hospital, tracking him to where he needed to go, but it was flickering, fading now because of that _damn, useless memory. _He snarled, not understanding why it was bugging him so much, why he was even thinking of it when he was in so much danger, when every crack that the ceiling made or every splinter in the floor could be the last sound he heard. The memory was embedded in his mind, and Mycroft was soon telling himself that it was the smoke that was making his eyes water and not the thoughts that were losing his focus. _You weren't there for him then, _Mycroft thought, and as if they had been a key to a lock, something slotted into place. He hadn't been there for him.

All those times Mycroft had turned away, even against all he had done for him, was it enough? Was it enough that he had tried? Was it enough just to trust in one person so much that you knew they could never hate you, no matter what they said? He felt ashamed suddenly, and almost missed the point when his trouser leg snagged on something and he yelped, the ground hitting him hard when he fell, and a solid knock to the head making him see stars. He groaned, blinking. _Idiot, _he scolded himself mentally, forcing himself not to voice his frustrations after the smoke had already irritated his throat to the point where it had cracked and become sore, _Focus. _He pushed himself up, biting back a hiss of pain when he felt his bruised ankle touch the ground again and it felt like someone had pressed a hot iron to it.

_Carry on, _he told himself, _you have to do this for Sherlock, you have to be there this time. Can't let him fall apart this time. _Not like that time. He wasn't going to turn away again. He thought suddenly of John Watson, the rather interesting flatmate. Mycroft could never have imagined Sherlock having someone like that, so why now could he never imagine John Watson leaving him? It seemed strange, and Mycroft almost felt jealous. It was his job to look after Sherlock, not some flatmate's or friends. Something always bugged him when he thought about John Watson protecting Sherlock. It was his job. But then…did he always get the chance? Did he not need someone in the flat with Sherlock, to make him eat, to throw the drugs away, to tell him _no. _Mycroft wondered how many different meanings of _there for him _there could be. Because if there was a definition for older brother, Mycroft wanted to be it. And if that meant letting Sherlock be with John Watson, letting him go on the dangerous cases when he really wanted his brother just to leave it alone, then so be it.

He rounded a corner painfully, eyes darting for something recognisable in the smoke, half caused by the dust in the rubble, half from the nearby explosion. He had to move, fast. _Legwork, _Mycroft thought gingerly, _never was my forte. _He had felt his focus return a little with his resolve and testily allowed his mind to reassert its imagined map. Feeling along the wall, he managed to stop himself from bumping into anything too dangerous but the ground felt like it was quivering constantly. He was sure that he was closer now, _Left turn, straight ahead, 4 metres, next left turn, stairs. _Mycroft was moving on auto pilot now, not having done something like this in a long time but yet still being partly trained in what to do. He pressed himself against the wall and closed his eyes when something snapped and fell from the ceiling, landing only a short way behind him and his eyes smarted at the dust that invaded them when he opened them again.

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself forwards, looking around for the stairs sign glowing in the dark. _Damn it, it should be right here. _Mycroft was getting more and more frustrated, and soon he wasn't able to tell which way he came and which way was out, his focus solely on finding the stairs. _Where the- _There. There was barely enough light to be able to see it, the luminescent box broken and smashed but Mycroft was able to see the door, blessedly close. He breathed out a sigh of relief, but he knew that he wasn't even close to safe yet. But if he found her, then maybe he would be able to get her out.

He stumbled into the stairwell and the lack of smoke in there made him gasp for air as if he had been starved of oxygen for too long. He coughed hard, doubling over and waiting out the painful spasms. _Damn Sherlock, _Mycroft thought teasingly in his head, the relatively safer position making relief mess with his brain, _going to get me killed one day. _Mycroft staggered forwards, still coughing. _Come on; hurry up, _Mycroft urged himself. He knew that another blast was imminent, and when it did hit, it was going to be close by, if not right where he was. He needed to get her out, even if he didn't make it when he did. He winced at the idea, but he had to be realistic. And he had to think of Sherlock. Mycroft would rather not come back than have to watch his brother fall to pieces.

The stairs finished and Mycroft lurched out onto the ward. _Third door down, Tamila Mills. _He staggered inside and saw her, swallowing a little at the task that presented itself to him. He sighed. He knew he'd have to carry her, but now that the trial was in front of him, he felt like running away from it. _Like you ran away from Sherlock when he needed help. _The thought quickly sobered him up and he quickly went to the bedside, he knew that there was only perhaps a minute to spare before another blast. _Keep her safe, get her to Sherlock. _The two objectives seemed to be the only thing in his mind as he slipped his arms underneath the woman, lifting her gently.

He was about as strong as he looked and luckily Tamila didn't weigh a lot, in fact it reminded him of the time Sherlock had broken his wrist at school and, refusing to move from where he had planted himself, Mycroft had had to carry him away. The bittersweet memory made Mycroft's lip curl and he pushed it down, carrying Tamila from the room as quickly as he could.

"You've got a guardian angel looking after you," Mycroft muttered to her, thinking of her saviour sitting, locked outside of the hospital. He scanned the rooms for any more patients, but he knew that they had had family down there at the time, people to get them out, but Sherlock had known enough about the lady to know that she didn't have the family to visit her in the hospital.

Mycroft was close to the stairs once again, dreading them, when the blast happened. Suddenly it felt like the entire ward had juddered and then there was a ripping sound and the air split with the noise of the explosion. _Sorry Sherlock, _Mycroft thought as he was pitched forwards and the room exploded.

* * *

Sherlock saw the blast, fire beginning to blaze from the building Mycroft was in.

"No!" He yelled, "Mycroft!" He tried to get up but the fire in his legs made them buckle and he fell, John rushing to support him.

"No, Sherlock! Wait-" John shouted, holding Sherlock in place as his flatmate struggled.

"No! No, Mycroft, Mycroft! Damn it John, let me go! Let go of me!" Sherlock screamed and John realised that he was having a hard time holding onto his struggling friend, anguish lending Sherlock strength.

"Please John, let me go, let me go," Sherlock said, breathless and John gritted his teeth to keep himself in place. Mycroft wouldn't have let go, Mycroft was stronger than John was with Sherlock. He had to keep Sherlock in place, or Mycroft would never have forgiven him.

"I can't Sherlock, I can't," John admitted and Sherlock growled, the sound higher pitched as Sherlock's voice failed him, the noise becoming a whimper of frustration.

He felt himself being lowered back down and Sherlock allowed it, sinking against the building numbly. _Not Mycroft, _Sherlock shouted in his head, but the sound didn't leave him, _He's the only family I've got. _Sherlock looked to where his mother was gritting her teeth as nurses held her down when the spasms took over her body again and Sherlock had to look away. Even as she was she looked triumphant as if she already knew that Mycroft was… Sherlock didn't finish that train of thought.

_Sherlock, if you think that I'm just going to give up on this and walk away then you have another thing coming._

Sherlock blinked. He didn't know why that memory came to him. It had been a long time ago, something that he should have deleted but never had had the heart to do so. In a way, it was a bad memory, but it was still a memory shared with his brother. And even when it hurt, it was still one of the memories he and his brother both had, like everything they had come through together had inexplicably become something to be proud of, something they achieved.

The memory was quick, a flash, but he remembered what he had told his brother. _I hate you. _Sherlock felt something choking in his throat and he coughed. _Oh God, _Sherlock thought, _I… I hadn't meant that. _He let out a shocked, unfeeling laugh at the irony. The only thing The Great Sherlock Holmes ever said without meaning to, the only slip of the tongue he'd ever had, the only words that had never meant anything, that would never mean anything…and he would never get to take them back. _Please Mycroft, _Sherlock prayed, _Be alive, please. I can't do this without you, please. I'm sorry, you'll never…you'll never know that I hadn't meant it. _Sherlock felt a constricting sensation in his throat again but he sat still, staring, unable to comprehend what he had just seen. _Please have known._

* * *

Mycroft coughed hard, his eyes opening blearily. He couldn't remember anything but the sudden sickening feeling of being knocked from his heat and being pitched forwards painfully, the hard, gushing feeling of air being knocked out of him when stone hit his back and he felt something crack. Then there had been the dark, and flickering lights and things that seemed like they were real but memories at the same time and a need to shout and-

Mycroft managed to turn his head, even that movement making him grunt in pain. He saw a woman lying near him and he blinked in confusion, his mind managing to grasp the situation. _Tamila. Sherlock. _He groaned and tried to move, but something was trapping him, holding him down hard onto the ground and he hissed at the pressure. Squirming in desperation, he tried to wriggle free, finding only a little give, a small amount of room. He snarled in frustration and moved a little more, something cutting into his side and making him cry out. It felt like piping, three sharp objects cutting into him and he could feel something wet. _Blood, _Mycroft thought, _am I bleeding?_

He shook his head and tried again, screaming in pain but carrying on. His jacket ripped as it caught and he managed to shrug it off, and he finally managed to break free, panting loudly, even though his ears were still ringing from the blast. Down the corridor, Mycroft could see flames licking at the walls and he swallowed hard, focusing. He moaned in pain when he knelt, hands slipping under Tamila's back again, biting through his lip and making it bleed when he had to straighten up again, taking the first step. It felt like someone had just set him on fire, the feeling spreading through his body so fast that for a moment he felt winded and had to breathe, standing still.

He had to do this. He had to get out. _Think of Sherlock, _Mycroft thought, _don't leave him alone. _He snarled, gritted his teeth, and set foot once again, driving solely by the thought that out there, his little brother was waiting to be saved.

* * *

Sherlock jumped at the sound of the door scraping open, scrabbling to his feet in shock and almost knocking John over. Sherlock immediately felt the heat, even from where he stood now, his body trembling with the force of anguish that had managed to overcome him. He blinked at the smoke ridden doorway and managed nothing but a wet cough and a whisper.

"Mycroft?"

John heard the whimper and it was the most heart-breaking thing he had ever heard, the simple, muted cry of a younger brother, calling out for his hero. _There are no such things as heroes John; _John remembered suddenly, Sherlock's voice clear in his head.

But Mycroft Holmes sure looked like a hero to Sherlock.

Sherlock let out a surprised, choked sound as a figure appeared in the mist and he had barely emerged before Mycroft was barrelled into, long brown curls burrowing into his neck as Sherlock shouted his name.

Mycroft gave Sherlock a nudge, warning him to be mindful, and Sherlock let go, spotting the cradled woman in Mycroft's arms. Mycroft saw Sherlock's shoulders drop in what Mycroft could only guess as relief and gratefulness and Mycroft was careful to set Tamila down gently on the ground. Sherlock crouched down on his haunches and seemed to assess the woman for a while and he kept on looking up at Mycroft, as if disbelieving in that he had actually saved her. John gave a sigh of relief behind them, shooting Mycroft a nervous, reprieved smile. There was a cry suddenly and John had to turn away, Sherlock's mother crying out as the nurses struggled with the ever increasing jolts rocking her body. He gave Sherlock's arm a tight squeeze and then looked to Mycroft pointedly, exchanging instructions in a singular glance.

Mycroft turned to his brother, aching and sore and not expecting of when he suddenly felt arms being wrapped around his shoulders and a trembling Sherlock was suddenly hanging from him.

"I didn't mean it," Sherlock said suddenly, "I didn't. I don't hate you. I'm…" Mycroft waited, wondering if the words would come, wondering if Sherlock would be able to cross the gap that had sunken between them. Mycroft was ready, if Sherlock was. After all the years of growing together and yet apart, Mycroft wondered if one word could sum it all up. He waited.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said finally, and suddenly Mycroft felt as if everything, all of the feelings in the past years had suddenly made sense, like they'd been planned and now they had only just clicked into place, culminating into something that Mycroft knew had only made them closer. Made them stronger.

He wrapped his own arms around his brother, holding him up as Sherlock shook violently, part shock, part relief.

"I know that Sherlock, I knew that, it's okay," Mycroft said and Sherlock seemed to sag a little, his entire being seemed to relax all of a sudden, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry too".

Sherlock stayed there and Mycroft thought of the two little boys on the stairwell, one consoling the other, and making a promise that had taken over a decade to keep.

"I'm here now Sherlock," Mycroft promised and Sherlock finally seemed to be able to stand again, but Mycroft still held on.

"Mycroft," John's voice came urgent but low. Mycroft looked up and Sherlock turned his head, and what he saw made him feel sick.

"I'm sorry," John said but Sherlock's eyes were fixed on his mother, who was writhing in pain, but the nurses had backed away, merely standing now and Sherlock quickly understood.

"She-"

"Her liver's shot, she…she's not got long, there's nothing we can do…no equipment"

Sherlock stared, not knowing what to do. She was his mother…and yet he felt strangely empty and he stood staring for the longest time before slowly, ever so slowly, made his way towards her, crouching. She was hissing in pain, curled up, the nurses looking undecided on what to do except wait. She was all but snarling and Sherlock recoiled as she caught sight of him, and a frail arm shot out to latch onto his.

"You're going to help me," she growled and Sherlock blinked in surprise, wincing at the tight grip, "You _will _help me Holmes, help me! I am not going to die here! I'm not!" Sherlock felt panic surge in him and he tugged to free his wrist but to no avail.

"You wouldn't even be _alive _without me, you owe me your life!" she shrieked and Sherlock gave a frightened whimper.

He felt someone stand behind him, the shadow looming and his panic increased, choking over a shocked cry.

"He doesn't owe you anything," Mycroft Holmes said and Sherlock looked up, his brother standing over him, eyes locked on his mother. Sherlock took the moment and wrenched himself free, Mycroft's calm demeanour setting him straight as he forced himself to act.

"Sherlock, stay away from her," Mycroft said plainly and even through her pain, Sherlock saw the furious look on her face and it scared him, making him flinch and stay put. _Please don't say anything, _he begged silently and he didn't know if he was begging her, or begging Mycroft not to think he was a coward.

"Mycroft," he whimpered quietly and he jumped violently when his mother shrieked, lashing out at him and made him fall backwards.

He hit something solid, making him gasp in shock, but he discovered that the solidness was warm and quite soft and he looked up, John Watson's face only inches from his as he had crouched to catch Sherlock's fall.

"You're not going to leave me to die Sherlock!" Mrs Holmes screamed and John could feel Sherlock shaking forcefully.

"Please, don't, stop," Sherlock whispered and John held him tighter, closer.

"You're sick! You can't leave me to die! I won't let you Holmes! You won't be forgiven for this!" she screamed. Sherlock gave out a half choked sob and drew into himself.

"No, no, I- that can't- I never-"

"You'd be a murderer Holmes! You'd kill your own mother! DO SOMETHING!" The pain swallowed her and she cried out, writhing and John looked up at the steady sight of Mycroft Holmes, stood, passively watching.

"You're no different," Mrs Holmes spat, directing her renewed attack at the now crouching form of her oldest son, "You'll burn in _Hell _for this!"

"I wouldn't want to share that space with you mother," Mycroft stated, and John felt Sherlock look up, admiration in his eyes, at Mycroft, the older brother's coolness diffusing the shouts like they were nothing, "I would much prefer to keep my brother company elsewhere Mother, and if that means doing whatever is necessary to protect him…then that's what I'll do, you understand?" The glare his mother gave him was pure poison.

"You are never going to hurt him again. Never. I'll make sure of that."

"You… Mycroft, help me!" she hissed and John heard a hint of desperation in her voice as the spasms reached a peak and she was shook for a full minute. She was panting now; sweat coating her now gaunt, pale face. Mycroft stood up and looked down in distain.

"Thank you mother," Mycroft said and John didn't know whether the tone was truthful, sarcastic or even grateful, but for what for John would never be sure. The woman's voice was frail now as she reached for Sherlock who didn't move, didn't flinch, didn't draw up into himself and instead sat very still, gazing at her with…pity.

"Holmes-" she managed to drawl out and Sherlock didn't even move, Mycroft coming to stand closer by him.

Sherlock swallowed and allowed his brother's closeness to reassure him, John's strong arms still wrapped around him protectively, supporting, Mycroft's own support coming intangibly but still as strong.

"I…I feel sorry for you," Sherlock said, voice becoming level. He waited a moment. "I forgive you". John blinked. He would never fully understand the Holmes brothers, but he supposed that some things they shared were only traits between themselves, growing secret over time. Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on his mother's and a moment before, he looked away.

Then, she was gone.

John heard sirens in the distance but didn't move, allowing Sherlock the time he needed, staring with sunken eyes at the shell of the woman who had kept him imprisoned within himself for all these years.

Mycroft looked down at his brother and crouched, looking him straight in the eyes as he did so, seeing the younger eyes meet his with nothing but admiration filling them like tears, the shining reflections making them sparkle.

"Well done," he said simply, and Sherlock nodded, the implied message unheard by John, but as ever, so clear between them. _I'm proud of you. It's okay. We can fix this. I'm sorry… Thank you. _And then the moment was gone and Mycroft was standing again, crossing to the nurses to arrange treatment for both Sherlock and Tamila. He shut his eyes a moment, a moment of jealousy coming over him, leaving as fast as it came as he saw John bundle Sherlock into his arms tightly. John was better at that. John knew how to do that sort of thing, and Mycroft didn't. John could be there for Sherlock on things Mycroft knew Sherlock would never tell him, that he could never deal with, but then, there were always the times when John was not capable of doing what Mycroft did. Mycroft couldn't be that close, face to face, but from afar, he could be closer than anyone in the world to the person he cared most about. And if that was everything he had, then he would give it to Sherlock without a seconds thought. He sighed and the façade was up again.

_It may never always be enough, but it would always be everything he had to give._

* * *

_**A/N: **__And so this is how the world ends, not with a bang, but with a whimper. One of my fave quotes right there :D Feel free to now sing "Yeeeha! The Wicked Witch is dead!" I felt something more poetic was in order, so I quoted instead of Munchkin singing, but Munchkin singing is cool too :)_

_I hope I lived up to at least a few expectations with this :S It took me long enough! Feel free to comment/review/criticize/flame if you wish to let me know how this went :S I felt that Mycroft really was the type that could know everything about a person and be able to love them from a thousand miles away and still be able to protect them. Another reason to love Mycroft! Lol :D(this series surprised me on how much I could like Mycroft Holmes :D)_

_Not sure if I should or shouldn't apologise for the long chapter :S Up to you guys, if you want an apology, then please, take this one: I'm sorry for the long chapter! :D_

_A lot of the ideas for this I think could be appointed to the scene in The Great Game where Mycroft goes to Sherlock's flat. Certain bits from Mycroft to John (particularly when he just says, "Good, good" in the way he does) makes him seem incredibly jealous of John, but then he does hand the files to John even though it contains confidential information. He may not like John very much or be a bit jealous of him, but he does trust him to look after Sherlock. Also, when Mycroft warns Sherlock "Don't make me order you", Sherlock replies "I'd like to see you try" and that specific bit is exactly the venomous kind of tone I imagined him talking to Mycroft in during the flashback because on second watching it's like watching a snake striking! Lol, seriously, it's quite heated (and not just because Sherlock is unbelievably good looking when he says it ;P)_

_Anyway, feel free to drop a line, whatever you want to say or contribute or review and thanks again for reading (and waiting! THANK YOU FOR THAT!) And a note: The next chapter may indeed be the last chapter (I am actually feeling sad, I'll really miss writing it, despite the writers block and the deadlines and the complaining that I do constantly to my poor, very patient friends :D) but the story is drawing to a close now. I feel a wee bit empty-ish now :'( Lol, but never fear, at least we still have one more chapter right! :D _


	27. Halfway

_**A/N **__I'm sorry! Me being me, I forgot to mention that I was away on a surfing holiday for a week, so feel free to kick my ass about that. The past week however, I am not as much to blame as the "Server time-out error" has returned with a vengeance and I spent near on 2 hours fixing it on and off tonight :/ But aha! I have the little beastie in my grasp and I'm not letting go! But honestly, I deserve whatever you want to say to me about lateness *blush* I'm so sorry! But this chapter is reeeaaallllyyy long, and I mean, ultra-long, so I guess that's a little better I suppose :/  
__However, oh God I don't want to say it: This is the last chapter guys *cue me breaking down into really loud embarrassing sobs* I've left thanks at the end of this chapter guys, but to everyone who reviewed/alerted/favourite last chapter: Thanks for keeping me focused over this week of no uploading (gah!) and motivating me to sit down and fix it (despite me knowing very, very little about the internet :/) So thank you very very much for taking out the time to do that for me! :D God, I'm gunna miss you all (No Storystuff, save it for the end of the chap :/ )  
__**  
Disclaimer: **__So, I visited Sherlock. Now, it may have been the flying monkeys behind me, but something gave away to him that I was the one trying to kidnap him (I blame the suspicious looking tea stain on my shirt) but after much grovelling, he finally understood. He also told me that I was a very strange stalker who needed a hobby (he wasn't pleased when I told him that he _was _my hobby). So… we have now what you call a "difficult relationship", you know, I fangirl message him, he ignores it…I fangirl squee him… he ignores it. That kind of thing. However what I do want to say now the fanfic is coming to an end is that we all have a piece of Sherlock to ourselves, whether he be a Hurt/Comfort!Sherlock, an Awkward!Sherlock, a Happy!Sherlock or just a plain old by the book Sherlock, we all have one, if he's down on paper or not, and we mustn't forget that, because the fangirl side of us is rooting for him to appear in the 3 episodes this year, and the longer series planned for 2012! (Can I hear a woopwoop!) So whether it's that bit of fluff or slashy hintings, that smidgem of H/C or that awkward!Sherlock moment, it's safe to say that we've always got a little bit of Sherlock to keep our hearts warmed up…_  
_However for the people who can't wait that long: The ownership of Sherlock is still very much up for grabs, so I for one am planning my next assault! So don't be surprised if you see me, 98Shaddowolff98 and a dozen others on CrimeWatch for stealing away with Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman. It's nothing personal; it is a free for all after all ;)_

_Longest disclaimer ever. And now the mushy bit is over, on with the fanfic! (And more comfort than you can shake a stick at ;P) _

* * *

Sherlock coughed a little, his chest feeling like his lungs were one giant bruise. He groaned but tried to muffle it into a pillow so not as to alert John who was busying himself in the kitchen. It had been only a few days since the explosion at the hospital and, in all honesty, Sherlock was happy just to be back at 221B Baker Street again with his mother hen busying away in the kitchen, even with bruises and burns and whatever else he had to argue against having in order to be allowed home and not being sent to some other hospital elsewhere in London. He sighed and buried his face further into the pillow. Lying face first on the sofa may not seem to John like an effective get-well tactic, but Sherlock liked it and had so far refused to move from the position for long periods of time.

Sherlock stiffened when he heard the clinking of a spoon being put down in the kitchen and he let out a groan, louder this time, in annoyance when he heard John pad into the room. Obviously his attempts at hiding any form of discomfort hadn't been successful in the least, a note that made Sherlock scowl unhappily, resolving to further improve his acting skills once his chest started allowing him to breathe more air than that that of a five year olds capacity.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" John asked and Sherlock felt him come to sit on the coffee table by the sofa. It was usually something John despised Sherlock doing, saying it would mark Mrs Hudson's furniture, but it seemed okay for him to do it when he was worrying over something. _Hypocrite_, Sherlock thought, but it did always give Sherlock a gauge on just how worried John was about something. Standing by the kitchen archway equalled a smaller amount, but the coffee table was a completely different league. Sherlock smirked at that.

Refusing to give John further reason to ask if he was okay for what must be the hundredth time (_sixteenth, actually_, Sherlock calculated), Sherlock simply let out an incoherent mumble in reply. Apparently that was the wrong answer as Sherlock heard John sit down on the floor next to the sofa, crossing his legs and reaching for the little stockpiled first-aid kit underneath the couch. _Oh dear, _Sherlock thought, _sitting on the floor. It's past the stage of worry now, I cannot help his condition. _Unwilling to allow his friend to suffer any further he rolled onto his back grudgingly, pain flaring unwanted in his legs as he moved, but Sherlock knew from experience that it was better to appease John than to let him continue to fester in his thoughts. He could be almost as stubborn as Mycroft at times.

The thought made Sherlock stop for a moment, lost in his contemplation as John dug around for painkillers that would bring about the ordinary "I'm fine" routine that was really only for shows sake, being completely unnecessary around John, especially as he insisted that it never fooled him for a moment. But Sherlock always felt the need to at least set up some form of formality, just for the sake of the moment, for the sake of avoiding awkward questions like "Are you really okay?" and "Do you want to talk about it?" That was the worst one. Sherlock didn't want to talk about any of it, and he had told John so while coming back to Baker street. He had never asked again after that, but Sherlock could sense the question brewing under the surface. Sherlock sure as hell didn't want to talk about any of it; it wasn't like it would help.

Mycroft hadn't asked any of those questions and this thought made Sherlock stop to wonder about where exactly his older brother was right now. It was a strange thought, and it was accompanied by an even stranger sensation that Sherlock could barely make out. He'd never missed Mycroft being around before, he'd never felt safer when Mycroft was around, so why was he wondering where he was? It was strange. Spending time with him had been interesting, of course, but it had been something else too. It had almost felt safer to know that his brother had been protecting him, but Sherlock shook the feeling. He would deal with that thought when it came to it.

He gave John a glare as his flatmate finally dug out the box of no doubt high-strength painkillers.

"Oh come on Sherlock, you need to take these. You can't do everything yourself," John said, looking tired. Sherlock wasn't surprised that he was tired. Sherlock was embarrassed enough at being looked after, especially since for a while now all he seemed to be doing was relying on somebody else, but John seemed to have been keeping awake at all hours of the day. In the morning when Sherlock woke up, John would be in the kitchen, making breakfast, but whenever he woke in the night, trying to muffle the sounds of a nightmare so as not to wake him, there was always the strong, steady hand on his shoulder to pull him into the waking world, away from the nightmares. There was no wonder that he was tired.

"I don't need pills John," Sherlock lied. In reality, he was in agony, his legs still feeling like they would spontaneously combust at any moment, a thought which brought back cringing memories of how the first bomb could have gone for him…and the second for Mycroft. He fled the thought angrily, squeezing his eyes shut against it. _Delete it, just delete it. _

John sighed, setting the pills very deliberately on the arm of the sofa as his phone rang. He gave Sherlock a look before he answered and said playfully, "This isn't over you know". Sherlock raised an eyebrow, grinning. Sherlock had already deduced that whoever was on the phone was going to keep John busy long enough for him to sneakily palm the pills out of sight.

"Harry?"

Sherlock looked up, his usual inquisitiveness only managing a dull, almost bored interest, his head already throbbing with the strain of simple movements.

"What, Harry, no…Harry, stop, let me explain, I-" Sherlock coughed out a chuckle at John's apparent discomfort and sneakily reached back to hide the pills behind him. He smiled softly, felling inexplicably pleased with himself and laid back once again, this time allowing his head to fall all the way back onto the cushion behind him.

"Harry, listen, don't be like that, come on…" he heard John say and then John was heading into the kitchen, looking more nervous than before and Sherlock sighed irritably. _Siblings. God forbid we could have been born only children. _He heard a message bleep on his mobile, the phone being only on the coffee table nearby, but Sherlock looked at it disdainfully.

"John? Can you get my phone for me?" Sherlock tried calling, but it ended up as nothing over a grumble-like noise and Sherlock snarled in frustration, but John's ever listening ears had apparently picked up the noise as a moment later he came wandering back in, worry lines creasing his forehead as he picked up Sherlock's phone, his own still attached to his ear as if he was listening to someone ranting on the other end. But then by the din coming from the other end of the phone that Sherlock could hear from where he was laid, he was, choice phrases being "You could have gotten yourself killed" and "Why didn't you call me or something?"

John lifted the ear from his phone, giving that tired look again that for some reason made Sherlock's stomach twist guiltily and mouthed something. Immediately Sherlock groaned and buried his face into the sofa dramatically. _Mycroft is coming over. _Despite the inexplicable feeling of interest Sherlock had recently been maintaining, Mycroft was definitely not something he needed right now. Mycroft was going to make him _talk _about things, the last thing Sherlock wanted to do was have to have "a little chat" with his brother about what had happened with mother. He shuddered a little as his mind drifted back to that day and he tried to push the thoughts down, for now finding them impossible to fully delete.

"What? Now? Harry, I have Sherlock to look after, he's still healing up and…"

"I am not a child John," Sherlock snapped, interrupting the conversation. He almost felt John bristle.

"If you think I'm leaving you alone with no one to help out round here just so I can stop Harry worrying over nothing then you have another thing coming Sherlock, I-"

Sherlock found the weak spot in John's argument and leapt upon it, but he felt his thoughts stutter jarringly over the idea, even if it didn't show in his voice.

"Mycroft will be here. Go see your sister John," Sherlock argued and he had to grit his teeth not to say that he'd take it all back. He wanted some time to himself, and John really did need some time away after everything he'd been doing over the past few days, but having Mycroft round here was a grudging thought even as just an idea.

"Sherlock-"

"Say hi to your sister for me when you see her too," Sherlock said before John could argue, "I don't believe I have ever been acquainted with her before"

John sighed audibly and Sherlock tuned out of the rest of the conversation, halfway between sulking, and not being bothered to actually sulk properly. In fact, it was John who dragged him back into reality a few minutes later, Sherlock blinking slowly into reality.

"Sherlock! Your brother's here, at least try and look pleased," John said and Sherlock shook himself and tried to sit up, not wanting his brother to see him looking as weak and pathetic as he probably did lying down. He knew from his reflection in the mirror he'd seen this morning as he'd gone to get a (rather clumsy, painful) shower that he looked awful and had purposefully been attempting to hide away from the world since then. Unfortunately, the knock at the door of the flat was apparently insistent that he wasn't going to be hiding very much for very long.

Sherlock felt a hand gently place itself on his chest, effectively stopping him from getting up and he groaned, glaring at the owner of the hand.

"You need to stop moving around Sherlock," John pleaded and Sherlock had to harden his glare in order not to cave and ask John to stay right there and then.

"I don't need a babysitter John, I'm perfectly fine," Sherlock said instead and John, obviously not believing the half-hearted lie, raised an eyebrow and sighed, going to get the door.

"Then promise me that you won't act like a child and I won't have to babysit you," John teased, but Sherlock heard the worried undertone, the quick hurried whisper to Mycroft as John opened the door about being careful around him. _I'm not made of glass, I can take care of things myself, _Sherlock wanted to insist, but he decided that he was definitely better of bringing that subject up lately, when he could hold his own in an argument once more without feeling dizzy from the strain on his wounds.

He glared idly as John invited Mycroft in, his brother's aloof air seeming almost tangible in the room, and it made Sherlock crinkle his nose and look irritably at his older sibling.

"Listen, Sherlock, thanks, for this, Harry…she gets worried over me, but honestly, if you don't want me to go-" John began. _No, don't go, _Sherlock thought desperately, _please stay here. _

"John, leave." Sherlock said simply and he saw Mycroft shoot him a surprised, dubious look from the kitchen entrance where he was stood observing Sherlock's experiments on the kitchen table. John seemed to internally debate for a moment, but then Sherlock gave him a glare that made up his mind for him.

"Alright, just, take care of yourself, okay?" John said and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"John!"

"Alright, alright, I'm going!" John said and he picked up his keys from the side, sharing a knowing look that nearly sent Sherlock into a rant straight away. He hated it when people knew things he didn't. John gave him a smile and left, the silence in the room amazingly blissful after he had gone. Usually silence bored Sherlock like crazy, but when it came to talking with Mycroft, silence suited him just fine.

The quiet stayed for a long time, the room seeming cold and deathly in its stillness before Mycroft made his way across the room, drawing up a chair to sit on and he sat, gazing, watching Sherlock intently. Sherlock noticed it all, the way Mycroft moved as mutely as a cat does when stalking its prey, much like Sherlock himself did when he was on a case. He didn't know Mycroft could do that, he'd always been so distasteful of legwork, but Sherlock saw that his tread was a lot like his own. And the way he was sitting made Sherlock bristle warily. He knew that it was just Mycroft, nothing to be afraid of there, but he was, and always had been, habitually suspicious of his brother and now as he looked at him as if he was deducing, as Sherlock often did, the old habit was kicking in and Sherlock watched him closely, each brother silently taking in the other's situation.

Much to Sherlock's surprise, Mycroft didn't speak when he had expected him too; instead he leant back in his chair and seemed to be calculating something idly in his mind.

"Did you come here for a reason Mycroft or did you just come to stare since I'm sofa-bound?" Sherlock snapped, grinding out the words behind clenched teeth.

"How have you been holding up Sherlock?"

Sherlock was taken aback by the abrupt speech, the tone that clearly showed that either Mycroft hadn't even been listening to what Sherlock had said, or he was refusing to answer even if he had. Sherlock growled and bit his lip to hold back a biting, angry remark. It felt different, holding back a furious retort instead of letting it fly and Sherlock had to hold back the need to forget about everything and say it anyway. As it was though, he settled with a dark stare in his brother's direction, his defences building themselves up high. He'd shown enough of himself recently to be allowed the dignity to hold some things back at least.

"I'm fine, Mycroft and how are you?" Sherlock shot back and Mycroft gave him that very same cold, impassive look that he sometimes gave to police whenever he had shown up to one of Sherlock's crime scenes.

"I was only asking Sherlock, I thought that maybe perhaps you would need to talk about it."

"Well I don't."

There was a silence and the longer it went on for, the more Sherlock had the feeling that Mycroft didn't believe a word he had said, that his façade hadn't been nearly good enough to fool his brother. Sherlock winced. He'd spent days dreading this, the time when he'd have to face up to it. John had tried to get him to talk of course, but each time had been worse than the last until finally Sherlock had yelled at John to leave him alone. Not that John had taken any notice of course, he had come back only a moment later with two cups of tea and a blanket for Sherlock, but he had kept to his word and not spoken about the subject again after that. But with his brother, Sherlock doubted he'd be so lucky. He sighed and turned his head to stare at the ceiling.

"There's nothing to talk about Mycroft," he said quietly and he saw his brother nod slowly from the corner of his eye.

"Is that what you told Dr Watson?" Mycroft asked, "I can't imagine he took that very well" Sherlock gave a chuckle.

"He wasn't too bad…he made tea," Sherlock said and Mycroft laughed too.

"I'm not making tea if that's what you're wanting"

"Ah yes, how could I forget? Mycroft Holmes, the coffee drinker"

"Tea is for people with the time to drink it Sherlock, coffee is a more on the go beverage"

"For all of the business type people," Sherlock said, completing the sentence that Mycroft had jokingly said to Sherlock over 8 years ago, when they had once had a meeting at the Scotland Yard offices on one of Sherlock's cases. As Sherlock recalled, it was one of the few times since he was a child that he had smiled at something Mycroft had said to him.

"Exactly." Mycroft said and Sherlock smiled.

The tone significantly lightened, Sherlock felt himself uncurl a little and he stretched, ignoring the burning sensation that pricked his legs. As if reading his thoughts, or more likely the expression on his face, Mycroft raised an eyebrow and looked at his brother sceptically.

"Not taking pain medication again I see," he said, the tone almost a warning and Sherlock crinkled his nose at it, "It won't make up any better". Sherlock shrugged but Mycroft was giving him that stare, the one that allowed no argument.

"Sherlock," Mycroft warned and Sherlock made a small frustrated noise. Reluctantly, he put the pill he had palmed earlier onto the coffee table, Mycroft sighing irritably as he looked at it.

"One pill Sherlock, it would take all of five seconds, so why-"

"I don't like taking pills".

It was sulky, almost petulant, but the tone went almost unnoticed to Mycroft. Expression softening, he dropped his eyes to the little bottle of pills on the side.

"No, you never have," Mycroft said. A moment passed and then, very slowly, Sherlock reached out, taking the pill and the water on the side. Mycroft leaned forwards and helped Sherlock to sit up a little. Sherlock grimaced, looking disdainfully at the pill.

"As I heard it," Mycroft said, "There was a rather peculiar case I arrived at the scene of when you and Dr Watson had first met". Sherlock frowned and then looked practically open mouthed at Mycroft.

"You cannot make that comparison. I was proving a point," Sherlock said. Mycroft smirked.

"You were going to take a pill then, were you really going to do it? How on earth you'd have dry swallowed it I'd never know since you moan constantly whenever I tried to make you take one," Mycroft teased.

"I was proving a point!"

"Did he tell you to stop stalling and get it over and done with?" Mycroft said dryly and Sherlock scowled, putting the pill in his mouth and swallowing, washing it down quickly with the water. He narrowed his eyes at Mycroft who raised his eyebrows at him.

"I was stalling, actually, I was waiting for John to get there," Sherlock said. Mycroft looked sceptically at him and put his hand at his back to help him ease down once more.

"But I definitely had the right pill!" Sherlock added quickly, "It was child's play really, very obvious which one it was"

"I never doubted you for a moment," Mycroft drawled and Sherlock scowled, allowing himself to be helped back to where he had laid before and he squirmed a little to get comfortable.

Pulling the blanket over him a little, Mycroft stayed where he was, leaning forwards slightly, worried eyes on Sherlock.

"For the record however," he said, "I am glad that you didn't take the pill"

"I thought you said that you hadn't doubted me?" Sherlock countered and Mycroft shrugged.

"Well, personally I'd have gone for the other pill," Mycroft teased.

"You'd have been wrong"

"I'm sure I would have been," Mycroft said, and he didn't catch the playfully sour look Sherlock shot his way. Sherlock let his eyes drift to a stain that had procured itself on the carpet a few months ago, probably from one of his experiments, and wondered if there was a chemical way to remove it, as Mrs Hudson had had no look, even with a bleach smelling thing that had made the carpet smell awfully for days.

"Are you really feeling alright Sherlock?" Mycroft said softly and Sherlock, attention not drawn, merely nodded. _Maybe a cyanide-sodium mixture would get it out._

"You've been through a lot and I…I do worry about you sometimes," Mycroft said. Another nod. _I don't know if Mrs Hudson would be so pleased if I put cyanide on the carpet… again. _

"Sherlock," Mycroft said, "listen to me. Listen to me." Sherlock flinched back as a hand lightly tilted his chin to look towards his brother, his entire body jolting back. He stared, wide-eyed at his brother and he felt a full-body shake quiver down his spine.

"You're not okay," Mycroft said, a statement, not a guess, "And I wouldn't expect you to be. But you need to talk about this or it'll just get worse".

The older brother's eyes met the wide, shocked eyes of his little brother and he held them, hoping he was conveying everything he wanted too, but with a rational mind like his, he knew that wasn't possible. Sherlock closed his eyes for a brief moment and took in a loud, shuddering breath before he, eyes still tightly closed, rolled over so that Mycroft could only see the back of his brother's head, the curls flattened on one side by the pillow. He was about to say something in protest when Sherlock's voice came out, surprisingly strong, and it sounded as if he was right then and there in the process of deducing a particularly difficult murder case.

"I thought you were going to die. I thought I was going to lose you and then I would never get to tell you that I was sorry," Sherlock confessed and Mycroft felt a little taken aback by the honesty, unsure of exactly what to do with it now he had it. He had expected cryptic answers and riddles, teasing quotations and a whole lot of skirting around the issue, and the blatant statement made Mycroft feel uncomfortable, out of his depth. He considered momentarily if Dr Watson had anything to do with the fact that, even just by a bit, Sherlock had become a little more knowledgeable in the field of emotions, if only by a little, without Mycroft's noticing.

"I didn't want her to die, but I thought you were going to be gone for good and I…" Sherlock broke off and Mycroft could imagine the uncomfortable look on his face, "I never meant for that to happen".

Mycroft didn't say anything but looked admiringly at his brother. Despite everything they'd been through, Sherlock had turned out one of the good guys and, even if not everyone saw that, Mycroft could see it. But in all honesty, after everything that he himself had been through, he hadn't needed to see it. Maybe they didn't always see eye to eye, but Sherlock had always been around for Mycroft to come back to, and Mycroft for Sherlock. Mycroft didn't know exactly what that counted for, but he was sure that, to him, it meant a lot.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said softly, "I went back into the hospital because I chose to, because I'm your big brother, and that makes it my job to look after you, directly or indirectly"

"But what if you'd-"

"If you thought about what would happen for everything then you'd go insane, you can't do that to yourself Sherlock. I was going to come out, I was going to come back for you," Mycroft said. He didn't mention the moment when he had been sure that he wasn't going to be coming back out at all. Sherlock didn't need that right now.

Sherlock nodded and Mycroft felt himself smile internally at the long curls moving up and down. He never did get it cut, despite Mycroft's complaining on numerous occasions that it was getting to long.

"Sherlock, about mother…"

"I'm okay"

"Just let me talk to you Sherlock," Mycroft said sternly, "You don't have to keep on lying like that. If you don't want to talk…well then…that's fine, but don't lie about it." Sherlock thought for a moment, reluctant but eventually he spoke, slowly, unsure.

"I might not be completely okay about it," he admitted, "But it's not like I thought it would be. After you went back into the hospital… and you came back, you didn't leave me, even when there were all those odds and… I didn't think that I would have to alone anymore. I still have family…" Mycroft nodded, even though he knew Sherlock wouldn't see it.

"I'm not going anywhere soon Sherlock and she's not going to hurt you anymore. It's always been just us Sherlock and that's not going to change. And you've got Dr Watson, and your job and even that housekeeper of yours-"

"Landlady," Sherlock smirked.

"Landlady. But what I'm getting at is that you have family Sherlock, even when they're not related, and you have friends too, even when they're friends that just happen to be related to you as well," Mycroft smiled and Sherlock turned his head to look at him, hope filling his eyes. Mycroft put a hand on his shoulder and hoped to God that Sherlock wasn't going to pull away, breathing out slowly when Sherlock stayed where he was.

"We're not going to be going anywhere anytime soon," Mycroft promised and he watched as his little brother's eyes seemed to go from hope to gratitude to a mix of the two in only a few seconds.

Mycroft cast a glance at the kitchen table, filled with strange looking chemicals that not even Mycroft had seen before.

"Well, I'm not going anywhere anytime soon, but I don't know about Dr Watson and that landlady of yours if you keep putting those chemicals out on the table," Mycroft said, raising an eyebrow and he heard Sherlock give a shaky laugh, turning his head to see his brother's eyes shining. He turned away again to look back at the table, averting his eyes from where tears were shining in his brother's. Sherlock needed some privacy, but he decided that he could stay just a little longer, if only to make sure that Sherlock really was okay.

"Hmm, Mrs Hudson's given up on cleaning them up," Sherlock said.

"Difference between a landlady and a housekeeper," Mycroft sighed, feigning disappointment. Sherlock considered for a moment.

"On second thoughts, I'm more sure that she's a housekeeper than a landlady…" Sherlock said and Mycroft felt himself begin to laugh.

"I'm glad you came," Sherlock said. Mycroft tilted his head at him.

"Me too Sherlock, me too."

* * *

John sat down at a table in the café, averting his eyes to anywhere except from where his sister was sitting across from him. She looked a lot like him; he noted as he sat, they had always looked alike. The hair colour was the same, hers shoulder length and straight, and their eyes were practically identical and John had always joked that their parents hadn't bothered to give them different eye colour. To which she'd reply "Thank God they made me taller though, it must be awfully painful on your neck to look up all the time" and John would scowl and tell his dad to knock off the laughing. HE shook off the thought and sat uncomfortably.

"Hey Harry," he mumbled, still not looking up.

"I got you a coffee," she said, "You still take sugar?" She sounded sober, a rarity, and John found himself looking up, finally managing to face her. She gave him a warm smile and he managed a small one back. Despite everything, it was good to see her again; it had been ages since they'd last talked like this. Even longer since they'd last talked like this and hadn't ended up in an argument.

"How have you been?" he asked, hoping it didn't sound as awkward to her as it did to him.

"Listen, John," she said and John couldn't help but think _it did sound as awkward to her then, apparently, _as she had that concerned, almost annoyed frown on her face like she did when she tried talking to him about important things, "you should have called, I've been worried sick! The explosion at the hospital, it was on the news! I thought you'd been hurt!"

Embarrassed, John felt himself blush. "I never call because when I do, you always manage to be drunk," he said, but as soon as it left his mouth it sounded harsh and John immediately wanted to take it back. _Damn, only Harry could make me say something like that just by being concerned, _John thought bitterly. Harry looked at him, mouth slightly open and he noticed with shame that she looked hurt, embarrassed.

"Look, Harry, I'm sorry, I just… I've been stressed and-"

"I know, I know…you're right. I…I went to the doctor's office the other day, after the explosion. It made me think, you know, what if you had been hurt?"  
"Harry-"

"I mean, if you'd have been hurt and I never got to make it up to you? I never got to make it right after the last time we talked and if you'd been hurt then…then I'd never have forgiven myself. And it got me thinking, that I'd never get to make it up to you if I kept on drinking like this. I'd never get to talk to you without us arguing, I'd never be able to call you without being drunk and tell you that I was sorry for arguing… I just… we've never really had the time after dad went away…"

"Harry-"

"I don't want us to grow apart like dad did with the rest of us, I don't want that," Harry said, looking down into her coffee, "I mean, it'll be hard, but it'll be worth it, right? I'll feel better won't I? And then, maybe, you won't have to be a stranger anymore".

She laughed and took a sip from her coffee. "I mean, maybe it wouldn't be so hard to keep in touch if we see eye to eye a little bit more," she continued and John looked away, guilt rising so fast and so strong that it choked him.

"Harry, if I knew that you had felt like that then we could have talked, right?"  
"Whenever we talked, it ended up in an argument," Harry said slowly.

"But you should have told me. I…I don't want to grow apart either," John said, the guilt making his voice rise a little, but he pushed it back down, "Listen, we don't always have to see eye to eye on things, you… you don't have to change just to talk to me Harry"

Harry looked at him, sorrow in her eyes. "That's what siblings do right? They've got to change a little, well, a lot, sometimes for each other. And besides, it's for the best right?" John thought for a moment and sighed, leaning back.

"Yeah, yeah it is," John agreed, nodding. Harry smiled at him, a lopsided, sad smile, and she raised an eyebrow at him.

"But I'm not the only one who's going to have to change though you know! You're going to have to make some amendments too and that means calling me more often and not getting angry with me so much," Harry cried and John laughed, raising his arms in mock defeat before he nodded, smiling slowly.

"Okay, I…I'll try," John said.

"You promise?"  
"I promise."

"Good," Harry smiled and she raised her coffee cup, "I'd say that we should toast, but, um, I'd better not, it sounds stupid with coffee"

John grinned. "Well, to change," he said.

"To change," Harry said, "And hey, I mean it, I want you to visit too! In fact, I was planning to have you over you know, next week, you can bring your flatmate; I want to meet him and his brother too! I want to know who you've been hanging around with since you came back!" John laughed, drinking his coffee. Things looked like they were looking up. He knew that Harry had done this before, but this time, something was different. This time, it felt real.

"I promise," John said again and he let Harry continue to talk excitedly and letting himself enjoy another moment with his sister.

* * *

Martin Teres smiled, popping a strip of chewing gum into his mouth and chewing loudly, ignoring the look he got from the cabbie driving the car. He sank into the leather upholstery and grinned. _I could get used to this. _This _was what you called a job, high class stuff. _He sniffed, pulling out a small Rubik's cube from his pocket and toyed with it absent mindedly. As far as he was concerned, right at this moment, he had nothing to worry about: Mr Leach was now officially out of the picture and as far as he went, that particular job was over. Well, okay, Mr Leach was also ever so slightly a little bit dead, but then that was a technicality, the point was that the job was over. Teres smiled in satisfaction when he filled out a red cross on the cube as he mulled over the expression "Out of the picture". It was just a little, underwhelming really.

Fair play, Leach had been dead for almost a day now, but, Teres thought, oh well and all that. He was, after all, the person who had killed him. The look on Leach's face when he had pulled a Glock on him, it had been priceless. It still made Teres smile to think about it. And now with his recent contract terminated, Teres was rather interested in why he had received another message the other day requesting his services and what a Mr Moriarty could possibly want with 5 of Teres' homemade bomb vests…and what it had to do with Sherlock Holmes. Leaving that mystery for a moment, he made himself presentable as the driver pulled up, the view of the docklands where he was to be meeting the elusive new employer meandering up into the immediate horizon.

"That'll be four pounds and twenty," the cabbie said and Teres caught the disdainful stare he was giving the area outside the car. Teres gave what he meant to be a charming, almost friendly smile.

"I don't like your tone," he said, voice verging on cheery as he stated the fact.

"What do you-"

The sound of the gunshot filled the cab and Teres sniffed, putting away his Glock casually and patted down his sleeves. There was nothing worse than going to a job interview looking scruffy, he thought, and gunpowder is nothing if not messy. Taking in the grey, dingy docks, he straightened out his suit. This looked like one very nice opportunity indeed.

* * *

*5 Days Later*

Sherlock stood on the patio, looking out across the trees, noticing the smells of pine and willow as they drifted his way. They reminded him of the park he and Mycroft had gone to as children. Sherlock had always loved that park, the willow herbs down by the canal, the crickets in the long grass by the sycamores. Mycroft had caught one once and Sherlock had marvelled at it long after Mycroft had lost interest. Sherlock let the scents take him back, the strangely perfumed air feeling comforting in the new surroundings. Or at least, as new as the house of John's sister could be. Despite there being the obvious differences, Sherlock couldn't help but notice the obvious similarities in the way Harry kept the house. Trays of cutlery with forks always on the right hand side, clocks had to be central on the mantel piece if they were to be anywhere, books placed categorically on the shelf and not alphabetically. It was strange that Sherlock felt comforted by these things, but it did, it made it feel almost a little like home. And, added to that, John himself was around too, and although Sherlock never admitted it, he had discovered that, in fact, most places had begun to feel like home as long as when he turned around, John was there, right behind him.

Momentarily satisfied by the thought, he returned his attention to the well-trimmed lawn that spread itself outside of Harry Watson's house, deducing ever more details about her as he saw the way she had cut the edges of the grass, the way the roses had been delicately trimmed. He didn't want to get John's hopes up yet, he had been excited for days over the prospect of his sister's well-meaning intentions, but by the looks of things, the rehabilitation was going well for Harry Watson this time around. He wondered if John's agreement to visit today had had any impact on that at all.

At first he had been sceptical of visiting, especially when John had mentioned how he wanted Mycroft to come along too to meet his sister (Sherlock had decided that, in public at least, the show of the brotherly feud was probably still the best front they could put up), but eventually he had agreed, with John's strict instructions that they weren't going till Sherlock had recovered. By the time he had, however, Sherlock had been itching to get out, almost literally running up the walls and despite the still lingering remnants of injury, John had been forced into conceding. Mycroft, on the other hand, was less impressed, looking disapprovingly at his brother the moment he had got into the car on the morning they picked him up from the office and had shot John a murderous look.

"He was going crazy being stuck inside," John explained quickly and Mycroft scowled darkly. "I'm sure you would have done the same"

"I did, one time when he had been injured on a case and had pestered me into letting him out of the house," Mycroft said.

"And?"

"And I was one of the worst mistakes I ever made. He was the same outside as he was inside and he still managed to injure himself," Mycroft growled. John nodded in agreement.

"I'll get him a tracking device or something so we don't lose him," John ventured and Sherlock had difficulty telling whether he was kidding or not, and whether Mycroft was just moody because it was early morning or he was getting annoyed with John's stubbornness again.

In all honesty, Mycroft had, at first, been sceptical of the flatmate "Dr John Watson", putting him immediately to the test before Mycroft believed he would have had the chance to build up ties with the young Holmes brother. Unfortunately, in Mycroft's eyes, that was apparently untrue as Dr Watson had inexplicably turned down his offer without even hearing it out, opting to return back to 221B…to Sherlock. Mycroft didn't know whether to admire him, or be jealous of him, he had after all built up a trust with his brother in less than a day, something that had taken Mycroft years of hard work and sacrifices. But at the end of the day, he had settled, and John Watson had become one of the few people Sherlock Holmes truly trusted. In all, that was good enough for Mycroft, knowing just how difficult it was to get his brother to trust someone. He would always be wary, always be ready to pounce should the doctor ever harm his brother, but if Sherlock trusted him, then Mycroft could afford to take a little faith on that too. He had to trust Sherlock's judgement.

The three had arrived a little after midday, John grinning ear to ear as he greeted his sister, introducing Sherlock and Mycroft with more exuberance than Sherlock had seen in a long while. Even Mycroft had been on good behaviour, putting his beloved umbrella on the rack as they went through to the living room. Sherlock checked his watch. 4:50. He'd excused himself a moment ago, feigning dizziness and saying that he needed to get some air. John had offered to come with him, but Sherlock had shaken his head, insisting that he should be helping his sister in the kitchen.

"You know, needing some air is a very poor excuse, brother," a voice said behind him and Sherlock whirled around. Mycroft Holmes stood behind him, his entire being at a jaunty angle as he leaned on his favourite umbrella.

"Fooled you for a moment," Sherlock argued.

"Never." Mycroft paused a moment and took a step forwards. "He has a nice sister. It's good to see them getting along"

"Yeah. Looks like we've all had a bit of a wake-up call, if my phrasing is correct," Sherlock said and although his tone was mocking, there was an undertone of seriousness that made Mycroft tilt his head as he looked at him.

"Not really a wake-up call Sherlock, more of a… reawakening, wouldn't you say?"

"Hmm, a little pretentious don't you think?"

"Ah, never little brother, we're Holmes', we're never pretentious," Mycroft said.

"Naturally," Sherlock said, pausing a moment, "And if you ever call me 'little brother' in public again I will most certainly find a way to poison you Mycroft. Contrary to popular belief, I am not a child".

Mycroft smirked and shot him a doubtful glance.

"About mother," Mycroft said, and Sherlock's face fell, "There's to be a funeral on Friday. I was wondering… will you be attending?" Sherlock studied him for a moment, thinking, and then, slowly, he shook his head.

"Will you?" he asked and Mycroft immediately shook his head as well.

"I was only going to go if it was to escort you," Mycroft said, "I think we've both had enough for one lifetime of her, don't you think?" Sherlock let out a long, steady breath and nodded.

"She's gone now, Sherlock, you know that, don't you?" Mycroft said, his eyes becoming concerned as Sherlock seemed to drift away for a moment, only for his eyes to snap back to his brother as he spoke.

"A true master of deduction," Sherlock sniggered and Mycroft rolled his eyes, deciding that that was probably the best show Sherlock could produce right now and that testing it probably wouldn't be a good idea.

Mycroft twirled his umbrella and kept his eye on the tip, swinging it to and fro. "You know, Harry and John have the right idea you know. They're changing, even if it's by a little, or by a lot. Perhaps we could do to do the same," he said. Sherlock gave him a glance, half nervous, half anxious, and Mycroft sighed, stilling his umbrella.

"I just thought, maybe, we don't have to be on exactly the same level all the time Sherlock, that'll never happen. Maybe being different is something that should be bringing us closer…not pushing us away. Instead of always wanting to have it perfect, we could maybe for just one aspect of our lives, settle for a little less than perfect, and if we work with that…I think…I think maybe we've been missing that all along. Perhaps we just need to meet each other halfway?"

Sherlock stared for a long moment, blinking, allowing the words to sink in and the now-familiar lump in his throat was pressing painfully at his neck.

"I'm going to keep working to make this work out Sherlock," Mycroft said, "I promise, I'll look after you… I'm not going to leave you again". And with that, Sherlock felt an arm around his shoulders, before he even saw it, and then it was like he was seven once again, crying on the staircase to his brother all that time ago. It was awkward and it only lasted a few heartbeats, but Sherlock found himself in a position he hadn't felt he'd been in for too long a time. His brother loved him…and he wasn't going to leave, and Sherlock didn't feel afraid any more, or angry. He felt strange, a little scared even of what the future held, but for the moment, that didn't even matter. He coughed out an awkward smile as his brother drew back, Sherlock's arms only just managing to disentangle themselves from where they had clutched at his brother's back.

"Thank you," Sherlock whispered and Mycroft nodded.

"You'd better be in soon, I expect dinner will be ready," Mycroft replied and even thought the disconnected, cold tone was back, the oh-so-ordinary words hit Sherlock like a tidal wave as Mycroft retreated back into the house. It had felt like a family. And not the family he was used to either, with the shouting and the anger and the pain and the sleepless nights, but _his _family, his _real _family. The one with Mycroft, and John, and him, and even John's family who didn't even mind him coming over for something as average, as ordinary as dinner. _Sometimes the ordinary can be the most extraordinary, _Sherlock thought, and the thought resonated in his head.

He wondered as he stared into the house after his brother, if just by chance, what he said was true. That they could just possibly meet halfway. He swallowed and pondered the thought, both fear and inexplicably joy intermingling. Perhaps they wouldn't even need to change at all, but to meet halfway, as the people they were. Sherlock smiled at the idea and turned one last time to look back at the garden, starting when a cry rang out from inside the house and he felt himself blush. Mycroft had obviously found the severed hand that Sherlock had stored in his brother's bag. He chuckled, listening as his brother stormed his way towards the door, and Sherlock readied himself for the small bickering match that was bound to follow. But even that, even the fighting and the arguing, were moments spent with family, with siblings, with his brother, and even those moments were moments to be treasured. Because those moments were the times when even over a long distance, they were one step closer to when, one day, they'd cross each other halfway.

_Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the two shall meet,_

_Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat;_

_But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,_

_When two strong men stand face to face, tho' they come from the ends of the earth_

* * *

_**A/N **__Okay, I admit, I nearly cried writing that last line :S My first big fanfic coming to an end? Yeah, I'm sad! :P But it definitely, definitely won't be my last. Despite crazy laptops, failed A/N plans to capture Sherlock, flying monkeys, deadlines and general sleeplessness, I've had so much fun writing this and I really hope that you guys enjoyed reading it as much as I loved writing it! So yeah, if you enjoyed this fic, please feel free to check back on me every once in a while as this most certainly will not be my last Sherlock fic and even if I do write stuff for other fandoms (which I will be doing at some point soon), you can still count on me being knee deep in an idea for a Sherlock fic, he's just too damn writable! :D_

_Oh, and also, to those who don't understand the title, I got it from Rudyard Kipling's poem, "Never the two shall meet" and it was originally about a horse thief who also happened to be an Afghan chief in the poem who is being chased by a young British colonel, so obviously, it was nothing about brothers, however, in the poem, the colonel falls but the chief does not harm him as he could have done and so the poem shows how two men, so completely different (one from East, one from West) can meet on a common ground, and, as I read somewhere, it is a common ground that is not one made out of riddles or rhetoric but one of equals knowing each other, and I thought that this suited the brothers more and more each time I looked at the poem. So, yeah, just a bit of background there, you learn something new every day :P_

_And finally: Thank you. To all of you, to each and every person who's sat, stood or laid reading this on laptops, computers, phones and ipods, to each and every ultra-amazing, brilliant, adored, admired and downright loved one of you, because you have made this fic all the more special to write, and all the more worthwhile. You guys have made the entire journey something special so I just want to say: Thank you so, so much, and especially to all those who took the time out of their days to review, favourite and alert. And a special, special thanks to those reviewers that stuck with me since day 1, you guys have spurred me on better than caffeine, better than reruns of Sherlock and even more than my dream of kidnapping Benedict Cumberbatch. Thank you so, so much _

_To everyone: I hope to hear from you guys again soon and if not, then thanks for joining me for this one I can't wait to write more fics and see you guys again and if that's too long, feel free to drop me a line, whether just to say hi or to pester me/prod me into writing  
I hope you enjoyed, and this is me wishing everyone a happy Fanfiction time, a happy summer and a very fortune-filled year:_

_Yours truly, missing this already, _

_Storystuff Batman Sheldon Holmes M.D_


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